THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


9M>9  The   Baby   Presented   to   Mrs.    Neuralgia. 

"Take  away  the  ugly,  dirty  thing,"  Mrs.  Neuralgia  exclaimed  with  a 
gesture  of  disgust. 


Series. 


STORIES  FOE  LEISURE  HOURS. 


BY  AUGUSTA  LARNED. 


THREE      ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW  YORK: 
NELSON     &     PHILLIPS. 

CINCINNATI:   HITCHCOCK  &  WALDEN. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL  DEPARTMENT. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873.,  by 

NELSON  &  PHILLIPS, 
in  the  Ollice  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


T5 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

THE  PROFESSIONAL  BABY 7 

MERCY  DAVITS  AT  THE  ANCHOR • 38 

AUNT  THORBURN'S  BLANKET  SHAWL ^  . .  89 

AMOS  STANHOPE'S  PRACTICAL  JOKE 117 

THE  OLD  SQUIRE'S  WRATH 137 

WIDOW  HENDERSON'S  HAPPENINGS 158 

HANNAH'S  QUILTING 178 

THE  GOOD-BYE  Kiss 201 

LETTY'S  RIGHTS 216 

THE  RED  EAR  . .                                                               .  238 


THE  BABY  PRESENTED  TO  MRS.  NEURALGIA 2 

HANNAH'S  QUILTING  PARTY 1 89 

LUCY'S  RIDE  WITH  BROWN  BETTY   253 


973337 


STOEIES  FOR  LEISURE  HOURS. 


THE  PROFESSIONAL  BABY. 


MARY  MALONY  had  hung  out  a  sign 
from  the  fourth  story  front  window  of  the 
tenement  house  in  Cork  Alley,  where  she  lived, 
saying,  "  Baby  to  let  or  lend,"  the  fact  that  she 
had  such  a  convenient  piece  of  property  on 
hand  could  not  have  been  better  understood 
throughout  the  neighborhood  than  it  already 
was. 

The  baby,  God  bless  its  dear,  bright  eyes ! 
was  not  one  of  Mary  Malony's  own  brood.  None 
of  her  frowzy,  freckled  young  tatterdemalions 
would  have  answered  the  purpose  for  which 
babies  are  made  professional. 

This  particular  mite  of  humanity  was  the  ne 
plus  ultra  of  good  children.  It  early  developed  a 
remarkable  genius  for  being  "  turned  off,"  lying 
in  clothes  baskets,  and  reposing  contentedly 
upon  dresser  shelves.  Altogether,  it  was  a. 


8  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

winsome,  dimpled,  happy  creature,  that  every 
body  loved.  I  do  believe  this  baby  would  have 
flourished  all  the  same  hanging  on  a  peg,  it 
made  such  unseemly  sport,  considering  its  size, 
of  the  trials  and  troubles  of  this  great,  big 
world. 

Its  mother  had  been  a  char-woman  in  a  vast 
down-town  building,  all  honeycombed  with 
offices.  Once  she  slipped  and  fell  on  the  main 
stairway  with  a  bucket  of  boiling  suds,  and 
between  the  scalds  and  bruises  and  some  inter 
nal  hurt  that  day  received  she  never  did  a  stroke 
of  work  afterward. 

When  she  died  Mary  Malony  took  her  baby, 
because  "them  two" — Mary  and  the  mother 
that  was  gone,  "  rest  her  sowl !  " — had  scrubbed 
together  a  deal  in  their  time ;  and,  being  the 
"  owldest  and  bist  friends  of  each  other's,  had 
quarreled  and  fit  a  deal  too.  God  forgive  her! 
he  knew  how  quick  teched  she  was."  Besides 
this,  it  was  pure  charity.  The  purest  article  of 
that  kind  hides  in  just  such  dingy,  ill-smelling 
rooms  as  Mary  Malony's. 

The  baby's  father  proved  excellent  food  for 
powder  and  ball.  He  was  shot  in  the  war — one 
pf  those  dumb,  nameless  ones  that  make  so 


The  Professional  Baby.  9 

many  pathetic  little  hummocks  on  Southern 
battle-fields.  As  for  Dennis  Malony,  Mary's 
male  incumbrance,  he  was  substantially  what 
Mary  called  him,  a  "poor  coot,"  and  guzzled 
his  soul  away  in  dram-shops — never  seeking  to 
interfere  with  the  divinity  that  drudged  and 
toiled,  scolded  and  stormed,  up  in  that  fourth- 
story  room,  and  yet  at  heart  was  as  mellow  and 
sweet-flavored  as  an  October  pippin. 

There  was  the  baby,  Sophy  by  name.  The 
dusty  old  cobbler  who  hammered  all  day  in  the 
basement,  looking  as  if  every  part  of  him  had 
been  cut  out  of  the  same  rusty  piece  of  stuff — 
clothes  not  excepted — named  her  little  All- 
bright  ;  and  Mother  Spoon,  the  rag-picker, 
named  her  Happy-go-lucky  ;  and  Mr.  Sprat,  the 
sentimental  young  man  in  the  Pharmaceutical 
and  Chemical  Hall,  otherwise  a  two-shelf  apoth 
ecary  shop,  called  her  Twinkle,  because  he  said 
her  eyes  danced  just  like  stars.  And  in  some 
way  Mr.  Sprat's  poetical  name  came  into  favor, 
and  quite  put  out  all  the  others. 

It  would  take  too  much  time  to  tell  just  how 
Twinkle  became  a  professional  baby.  Mary 
Malony,  standing  over  the  washtub,  a  sort  of 
Hibernian  Venus,  in  a  cloud  of  soapy  stearn.. 


io  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

often  tried  to  excuse  away  the  very  best  action 
of  her  life.  But  folks  might  say  she  was  unjust 
to  her  own  flesh  and  blood  when  she  took  an 
other  mouth  to  fill.  Truth  to  tell,  there  was 
always  an  unoccupied,  aching  corner  in  each 
one  of  those  little  Malony  stomachs  ;  but 
they  never  begrudged  any  thing  shared  with 
Twinkle. 

Mary  always  ended  her  harangue  by  a  fond 
glance  toward  the  little  fair,  sunny  creature, 
looking  like  a  dove  strayed  off  accidentally  into 
a  flock  of  long-legged  goslings.  "  She  must 
scratch  for  herself  as  soon  as  iver  she  can," 
would  come  next,  with  a  half-suppressed  sigh, 
and  then  rub-a-dub-dub  back  to  the  wash-board. 
The  tender  age  at  which  the  young  fry  of  Cork 
\lley  began  "  to  scratch  for  themselves  "  was 
marvelous. 

Polly  French  (misnamed,  because  she  was 
really  English)  observed  once  that  Twinkle 
would  be  a  treasure  to  the  "  profession."  Polly 
was  a  little  in  that  line  herself,  she  ought  to 
know.  They  wanted  "  hinfants  "  that  could 
stop  the  public  ;  and  folks  might  as  well  try  to 
get  past  that  baby's  face  as  past  a  bunch  of 
violets. 


The  Professional  Baby.  1 1 

That  was  the  beginning  of  it.  The  profes 
sion  at  which  Polly  hinted  appertained  to  what 
she  naively  termed  the  "  haskers."  There  they 
go  asking  all  day  long,  through  the  streets  and 
lanes  ;  but  not  always,  as  the  Scripture  prom 
ises,  receiving.  There  go  askers  on  one  leg, 
and  askers  on  no  legs,  hopping  like  toads 
along  the  ground ;  askers  exhibiting  every 
kind  of  repulsive  deformity  and  pitiable  mis 
fortune  ;  askers  that  lie  and  thieve :  and 
others,  with  pale,  pinched  faces,  who  are  dying 
for  succor,  because  their  profession  is  in  such 
evil  odor. 

Cork  Alley  was  not  nearly  as  professional  as 
Dublin-street,  and  Dublin-street  in  that  respect 
could  not  compare  with  Backslum  Corner.  There 
were,  however,  plenty  of  people  in  Cork  Alley 
ready  to  strip  off  the  decent  clothes  given  them 
at  some  mission  school,  and  send  their  children 
out  in  rags  to  beg  through  the  streets.  God 
knows  they  were  poor  enough  ;  but  nothing 
can  excuse  the  wicked  deception. 

Honest  Mary  Malony,  who  would  scorn  to 
beg  as  long  as  she  could  earn  sixpence  with  her 
ten  ringers,  refused  the  "  loan "  of  Twinkle  to 
all  her  neighbors  but  those  in  actual  want  of 


12  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

food  and  fire.  So,  when  a  shock-headed,  smeary- 
faced  child  put  her  head  into  Mary's  door,  with 
a  "Plaze,  could  I  be  afther  borry'n  Twinkle 
to-day  ?  "  Mary  sighed,  and  said,  "  She's  an 
orphin,  as  poor  as  God's  birds  that  hop  on  the 
bough.  It's  no  lie  you'll  be  afther  tellin'.  But 
mind  and  see  no  har-rum  comes  to  the  darlint 
or  I'll  wallop  ye,  shure!" 

It  was  always  stipulated  that  a  part  of  the 
profit  should  belong  to  Twinkle  ;  and  the  hoard 
of  dirty  pennies,  so  gathered,  at  the  bottom  of 
Mary's  cracked  china  vase,  were  as  sacred  in 
her  sight  as  if  they  had  been  blessed  by  the 
Pope. 

So  Twinkle  was  carried  out,  day  after  day,  to 
knock  with  her  tiny,  unconscious  hand  at  the 
heart  of  the  great,  hard  world. 

It  was  the  morning  that  Tom  Malony's  "hin  " 
laid  her  first  egg.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  all 
about  this  remarkable  fowl  if  I  only  had  time. 
How  many  story  germs  lie  wrapped  up  in  every 
little  story-bud  !  This  event  was  of  the  greatest 
possible  importance  to  the  Malonys,  great  and 
small ;  for  sinee  the  hen  first  entered  the  family 
various  anticipated  blessings  had  been  referred 
to  it. 


The  Professional  Baby.  1 3 

"  Gosh ! "  said  Tom,  trying  to  use  a  manly 
native  American  word,  "wont  we  smell  custard 
when  the  ole  hin  begins  to  lay  ? " 

"  Bedad  !  "  exclaimed  Kate  Malony,  turning 
round,  with  a  knife  sticking  in  a  half-peeled 
potato,  "that  would  be  a  wicked  extravagance. 
We'll  sell  the  eggs  and  buy  mother  a  breastpin 
like  Miss  Mangel's,  shure ! " 

"  Hooray  !  hooray  for  mother's  breastpin  !  " 
shouted  all  the  small  fry  at  the  top  of  their 
good,  strong  lungs.  There  was  one  promising 
thing  about  those  ragged  young  Malonys — 
they  were  always  prepared  to  "  hooray "  for 
mother. 

The  counting  of  the  eggs  before  they  were 
laid  went  on  vigorously.  Various  nests,  in  old 
baskets  and  boxes,  were  arranged  to  make  lay 
ing  both  easy  and  pleasant.  The  happiest 
results  were  anticipated  ;  but  it  would  seem 
that  Tommy  and  his  little  brothers  and  sisters 
had  squeezed  all  the  laying  genius  out  of  this 
unfortunate  chicken.  As  for  Twinkle,  bless 
her  dear  innocence !  she  only  drooled  energet 
ically,  and  laughed  as  loud  as  she  could  when 
the  hen  was  on  exhibition,  and  that  happened 
to  be  about  all  the  time,  as  she  was  a  very 


14  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

accomplished  bird,  and  could  do  any  thing  but 
lay.  Speckle's  grand  one-leg  act  round  a  chalk 
circle,  gently  urged  to  what  Tommy  called 
"  coming  up  to  the  scratch  "  by  a  thread  tied  to 
her  foot,  the  promiscuous  rabble  of  Cork  Alley 
voted  almost  as  exciting  as  "  Dad  Macervin's  " 
performing  monkey. 

A  good  appetite  is  considered  a  great  bless 
ing.  But  did  you  ever  think  that  it  is  only  a 
blessing  to  lucky  people,  like  you  and  me,  who 
don't  have  to  bother  their  heads  about  where 
the  next  meal  is  coming  from  ?  The  huge, 
overgrown  appetites  of  those  little  Malonys — 
so  much  out  of  proportion  to  the  size  of  their 
bodies — almost  worried  Mary's  life  out,  and 
made  her  days  and  nights  one  round  of  dull, 
drudging  toil.  Speckle,  the  hen,  shared  this 
peculiarity  with  the  others,  and  ate  her  head  off 
regularly  at  least  three  times  a  day. 

When  those  brilliant  hopes  of  a  fortune,  based 
on  that  obstinate  fowl's  eggs,  began  to  fade  a 
little  from  the  minds  of  the  less  sanguine,  Mary, 
with  a  dark  look,  would  glance  from  the  uncon 
scious  Speckle  on  her  favorite  perch,  Tommy's 
shoulder,  to  a  little  black  pot  that  stood  in  the 
corner,  and  then  back  to  Speckle,  as  much  as  to 


The  Professional  Baby.  1 5 

say,  "  Great  gormandizing  hens,  that  can  lay 
and  wont  lay,  must  at  last  come  to  pot." 

Tommy  understood  the  look,  and  his  peace 
of  mind  was  gone.  He  made  the  most  touch 
ing  appeals  to  his  hen's  moral  sensibilities  by 
quoting  the  noble  example  of  old  Grimes's 
chicken : 

"  And  every  day  she  laid  two  eggs, 
And  Sundays  she  laid  three." 

But  it  failed  to  move  Speckle's  stony  crop.  In 
desperation,  he  thought  of  offering  her  to  Bar- 
num  as  a  highly-trained  fowl  of  immense 
genius  ;  although  down  deep  in  his  brave  heart 
he  still  believed  in  her,  and  held  a  little  glim 
mering  hope  that  in  spite  of  all  Speckle  would 
some  day  make  his  fortune.  Nights  he  would 
often  wake  up  out  of  some  dream  of  a  little 
Irish  boy's  paradise,  and,  nudging  his  brother 
Sandy,  whisper, 

"Sandy,  didn't  ye  hear  the  old  hin  a  cack- 
lin'  ? " 

But  Sandy  never  heard  the  ghost  of  a  cackle, 
or  any  body  else.  The  great  deed  was  done  in 
secrecy  and  silence,  when  least  expected. 

Speckle  chose  a  very  queer  place  to  lay  her 
egg.  She  dropped  it  on  top  of  a  refuse-barrel 


1 6  Stories  fot  Leisure  Hours. 

full  of  worthless  traps,  that  belonged  to  the 
Crow's  mother.  The  Crow  herself  found  it, 
and  ran  with  it,  while  it  was  yet  warm,  up  to 
Tommy. 

"  O,  mother !  "  cried  the  boy,  half  beside  him 
self,  as  he  hopped  round  like  a  parched  pea, 
with  one  foot  in  a  very  holey  stocking  and 
the  other  bare,  and  one  ragged  jacket-sleeve 
off  and  the  other  on,  "  the  old  bid  has  done 
it  at  last ! " 

Mary  Malony  stopped  spanking  little  Pat ; 
and  little  Pat,  he  stopped  crying,  and  began  to 
shout ;  and  all  the  others,  Twinkle  not  excepted, 
hooted  and  hooted  at  such  a  rate  you  would 
have  thought  nothing  less  than  a  shower  of 
fairy  gold  had  fallen  down  the  chimney. 

Now,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  how  that  very 
first  egg  that  Speckle  ever  laid  did  bring  great 
good  luck  to  the  Malonys.  Many  fine,  grand  for 
tunes  have  turned  on  a  pivot  no  larger  than  the 
little  end  of  a  hen's  egg. 

Quite  close  to  the  door,  with  a  meeching, 
apologetic  air,  as  if  all  the  stiffening  had  been 
cuffed  out  of  her,  stood  the  Crow.  I  suppose 
the  boys  had  given  her  that  name  because  she 
was  such  a  thin,  slinky  creature.  Her  hair 


The  Professional  Baby.  1 7 

was  too  limp  to  snarl,  and  her  old  tea-colored 
dress  clung  to  her  legs  like  the  tail  of  a  whipped 
dog. 

"  Shure,  was  you  afther  findin'  it,  Lindy  ? " 
Mary  asked,  as  pleased  as  could  be,  while  she 
patted  the  pearly  shell,  holding  it  affectionately 
in  the  hollow  of  her  great  red  hand. 

The  girl  nodded  with  a  sort  of  shy,  wrinkly 
smile  on  her  yellow  visage.  "  I  found  it  atop 
of  our  old  bar'I.  I  know'd  it  was  yourn,  and 
thought  it  would  plaze  ye." 

Mary  looked  surprised  and  softened.  The 
Crow  had  a  bad  name  for  thieving,  and  she 
wondered  at  this  sign  of  honesty.  I  am  glad 
to  say,  right  here,  that  the  Crow  had  a  far 
worse  name  than  she  deserved.  I  am  also  glad 
to  say  that  Tom  colored  under  his  freckles,  and 
looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  hide  behind  a  cab 
bage  leaf;  for  he  remembered  more  than  one 
occasion  on  which  he  had  mocked  and  jeered 
at  the  Crow,  along  with  the  rest  of  the  rabble 
of  Cork  Alley. 

"  Hooray  for  the  Crow ! "  cried  Tom,  trying  to 
pluck  up  spirit.  "  You  shall  have  an  egg  when  the 
old  hen  lays  three  eggs  a  day."  He  kicked  Sandy 
slyly  on  the  shin.  Sandy  was  busy  releasing 


1 8  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

a  flap  from  one  of  the  numerous  air-holes  that 
ventilated  Tom's  trowsers. 

"  I  don't  ax  none  of  your  eggs,  Tom  Malony." 
And  a  little  jet  of  fire  danced  out  of  the  Crow's 
dull  eyes.  "  But,  ma'am,"  and  her  tone  changed 
to  one  of  almost  tearful  supplication,  "  if  I  could 
take  out  Twinkle  to-day !  Sha'n't  a  mite  o' 
harm  come  to  her  ;  'deed,  there  sha'n't ! " 

Mary  had  always  heretofore  refused  this  girl's 
applications  for  Twinkle  because  she  knew  no 
good  of  her.  But  the  influence  of  old  Speckle's 
happy  effort  was  like  a  hot  sun  on  a  snow-bank, 
and  she  yielded  to  the  Crow's  request,  partly,  I 
am  sure,  because  she  knew  the  poor  creature's 
mother  was  sick — from  whisky  drinking,  be  it 
sadly  whispered,  but  nevertheless  sick — while 
the  cupboard  was  empty,  and  last  month's  rent 
overdue. 

Now  we  behold  Twinkle  wrapped  in  what 
Mary  called  the  "  flirt "  of  an  old  shawl — warmly, 
securely  wrapped  by  her  loving  hands  ;  and, 
after  receiving  two  smothering  kisses  all  round 
from  the  little  Malonys,  carried  out  in  the  Crow's 
bony  arms.  It  seemed  as  though  they  were 
hardly  strong  enough  to  support  the  baby's  con 
tented  weight ;  but  they  clasped  the  little  creat- 


The  Professional  Baby.  19 

ure  in  a  hungry  way,  as  if  she  was  the  burden 
for  which  they  had  long  been  aching. 

There  was  no  need  of  the  Crow's  trying  to 
look  worse  than  common  when  she  went  out 
begging.  On  the  other  hand,  with  a  curious 
touch  of  womanly  instinct,  she  always  attempted 
to  fix  up  a  little.  This  time  she  had  strapped 
back  her  lank  hair  with  a  piece  of  list,  and 
pinned  a  man's  cast-off  paper  collar  around 
her  scrawny  neck.  There  were  five  hooks  gone 
from  the  back  of  her  tea-colored  dress,  and 
three  others  were  straining  to  get  loose,  and 
give  freer  vent  to  the  bulge  of  undergarment — 
once  white,  perhaps,  but  now  of  no  particular 
hue — beneath.  Her  legs  were  bare  half  way 
down  from  her  knees ;  and  her  big  splay 
feet,  in  miserable  shoes,  that  served  no  other 
purpose  than  to  relieve  her  bony  shanks,  seemed 
to  ally  her  with  the  waders  and  web-footed 
species. 

Twinkle's  little  starry  face  shone  out  of  her 
old  wrap  as  peaceful  as  the  blue  March  sky 
overhead.  It  was  preposterous  to  try  and  make 
her  look  miserable.  She  left  that  sort  of  thing 
to  luxurious  infants,  who  are  cppressed  with 
their  embroidered  dresses  and  satin-lined  era- 


2O  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

dies.  She  never  appeared  to  think  of  what  an 
absurd  little  baby  she  was,  pushing  about,  in  a 
child's  weak  arms,  through  the  bustling  streets. 
She  cogitated  mainly  on  the  jolly  good  noises 
that  every  thing  made.  The  horse-cars,  the 
soap-fat  man,  the  rag-gatherer's  cart,  fish-horns, 
and  fruit-venders,  all  seemed  to  be  tooting,  pip 
ing,  and  jingling  for  her  especial  benefit. 

The  poor  little  Crow  had  never  been  so  happy 
before  in  her  life.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
evil  in  the  girl,  I  dare  say  ;  but  it  had  been 
coaxed  and  petted,  while  every  good  trait  that 
attempted  to  peep  out  to  the  light  got  instantly 
knocked  on  the  head.  The  heart  that  devoted 
ly  loves  a  little  child  cannot  be  wholly  bad,  and 
the  Crow's  love  for  Twinkle  amounted  almost 
to  adoration.  She  had  a  sweet,  maternal  in 
stinct  in  her  bosom,  that  made  her  long  for  a 
baby  to  pet  and  fondle.  Nobody  would  ever 
trust  their  baby  to  her  care,  because  she  was 
ill-favored  and  had  a  hard  name.  That  is  the 
world's  way,  you  know ;  when  people  are  sup 
posed  to  be  bad  they  get  fenced  off  from  the 
good,  and  left  to  grow  worse  and  worse.  But 
I  do  not  believe  that  is  the  way  our  heavenly 
Father  deals  with  his  misguided  little  ones. 


The  Professional  Baby.  2 1 

The  Crow,  or  Lindy,  her  true  name,  was 
the  only  lean  bird  belonging  to  her  miserable 
mother's  brood.  There  was  no  little  brother 
or  sister  to  mind.  How  often  her  hungry  heart 
longed  for  one.  Little  Twinkle  became  a  kind 
of  lodestone  to  the  poor  creature.  Nights,  when 
she  would  lie  down  on  her  bunch  of  foul  straw, 
supperless  and  cold — aching,  perhaps,  from  the 
blows  her  tipsy  mother  had  inflicted — an  imagi 
nary  Twinkle  would  seem  to  come  and  creep 
into  her  miserable  bosom,  and  her  skinny  arms 
would  clasp  the  precious  thought,  forgetting 
that  they  closed  on  emptiness  alone.  God  sends 
real  or  fancied  comfort  to  the  most  wretched  of 
his  children  ;  and  the  Crow  slept  the  sweet  sleep 
of  early  life,  believing  that  a  pair  of  baby  hands 
were  cuddling  in  her  neck,  and  a  baby's  sweet 
breath  was  warming  her  cheek. 

Twinkle  was  never  frightened,  else  I  am  sure 
she  would  have  put  up  her  lip  when  the  Crow 
took  her ;  but  to  her  dear,  blessed  eyes  every 
thing  looked  beautiful  and  good.  Accordingly 
they  trotted  out  of  Cork  Alley  together,  quite 
unmindful  of  their  professional  duties,  and 
bent  on  what  Tom  Malony  called  a  "  private 
bender." 


22  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

There  is  a  quiet  corner  even  in  this  great 
rattling  Gotham — Tobit  Place,  by  name — a  sort 
of  acute  angle,  into  which  the  whirling  currents 
of  life  cannot  conveniently  run,  although  they 
do  spill  over  there  sometimes.  Every  thing  in 
Tobit  Place  is  just  as  it  was  twenty-five  years 
ago.  The  Crow  knew  the  spot,  and  liked  it 
because  it  was  warm  and  sheltered.  Thither 
now  she  carried  Twinkle.  Then,  sitting  down 
on  a  door-step,  she  did  a  very  curious  thing  for 
a  Crow  to  do. 

It  was  a  pleasant  March  day.  Can  you  be 
lieve  it  ?  There  are  some  such  days  as  pleasant 
as  the  pauses  of  a  shrew's  tongue.  Every  thing 
overhead  was  blue  and  sunny.  Every  thing  in 
the  vegetable  kingdom  was  brown  and  bare, 
except  the  grass  ;  but  the  very  bareness  and 
brownness  of  the  tree-stems  in  Tobit  Place  had 
a  softened  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  We  are 
now  ready  for  buds  and  birds." 

The  Crow  was  thinking  of  the  little  human 
bud  in  her  lap,  and  thankful  she  had  got  where 
the  wind  could  not  nip  her  thin  shoulders. 
The  Crow  had  never  had  a  real  live  baby  in  her 
arms  before,  and  the  woman  germ  in  her  led 
her  to  examine  Twinkle's  little  body,  and  see 


The  Professional  Baby.  23 

how  it  differed  from  the  very  rudimentary  forms 
she  had  given  to  her  wretched  rag  infants,  so  she 
proceeded  to  unpin  some  of  Twinkle's  wraps 
and  feel  of  her  arms  and  legs.  How  that 
blessed  child  was  turned  and  twisted  and 
smothered  face  downward  !  But  she  did  not 
as  much  as  whimper.  All  the  time  her  little 
rosy  bud  of  a  mouth  was  sucking  away  at  her 
tiny  flattened  thumb  with  the  utmost  content 
ment. 

When  the  Crow  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  Lord  could  make  a  better  baby  than 
she  was  capable  of  manufacturing  she  began  to 
talk  baby  talk,  and  to  kiss  Twinkle's  lips  and 
cheeks  and  the  little  plump  hands,  punctuated 
all  over  with  good  little  dots.  Her  kisses  were 
wild,  hungry,  starved  kisses,  that  never  could  get 
enougrl. 

But  at  last  this  saintly  infant  rebelled,  and 
the  Crow  did  the  most  curious  thing  of  all ; 
she  fell  to  crying,  and  rocked  back  and  forth  on 
the  doorstep,  with  Twinkle  pressed  close  up  to 
her  sharp  ribs.  Then  and  there  she  told  the 
baby  all  about  it,  because  she  was  "  too  blessed 
little "  to  know  of  herself,  how  she,  the  poor 
old  Crow,  got  beaten  and  kicked  around  ;  how 


24  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

every  body  hated  her,  and  she  hated  every  body 
except  Twinkle,  and  meant  to  drown  herself  to 
spite  folks  and  make  'em  bury  her,  only  Twinkle 
wouldn't  let  her.  She  was  too  blessed  little  to 
know  how  ugly  and  hateful  the  old  Crow  was. 
"O!  O!  O!" 

Twinkle  did  not  relish  these  melo-dramatic 
weavings  to  and  fro,  and  the  hot  tears  that 
came  plashing  down  on  her  cheek ;  so  she  set 
up  a  series  of  squeals,  and  began  to  kick  with 
her  feet  through  the  old  shawl. 

"  Hush,  now,  my  oney-oney  huney-puney." 
The  Crow  sat  Twinkle  upon  her  knee  as  straight 
as  a  cob.  "  Stop  crying,  and  I'll  unscrew  my 
head  and  take  out  my  eyes  for  yez  to  play  with. 
'Deed  I  will !  We'll  go  to  a  swanny  good 
place,  like  the  outside  of  the  cuccuses,  and 
there  we'll  see  the  ladies  a-jumpin'  through 
hoops  and  the  gentlemens  a-hangin'  by  one  foot." 

"  Ugh  !  ugh  !  ugh  ! "  said  Twinkle,  looking 
excited,  as  if  her  infant  mind  was  highly  tickled 
with  the  picture.  And  I  don't  know  but  the 
pair  might  have  moved  away  from  Tobit  Place 
in  search  of  this  rapturous  spot  if  something 
had  not  happened. 

The  Crow  was  too  busy  to  notice  any  body, 


The  Professional  Baby.  25 

but  every  body  was  not  too  busy  to  notice  her. 
There  was  a  doctor's  wagon  before  the  opposite 
house.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  concern,  popu 
larly  known  as  a  chaise.  The  house,  too,  was 
old-fashioned,  with  high  iron  posts  bulging  in 
to  something  like  a  flower-basket  on  top,  white 
marble  steps,  scrupulously  clean,  and  ancient 
red  brick  walls. 

The  old  lady  who  sat  in  the  third-story  front 
window,  her  neat  muslin  cap-border  framing  a 
fresh  face,  looked  too  busy  and  comfortable  to 
be  new-fashioned  ;  and  the  man  who  had  drawn 
up  the  shade  of  the  front  parlor  window  as  high 
as  it  would  run,  with  his  legs  astride,  and  hands 
deep  buried  in  his  trowsers  pockets,  could  hardly 
be  called  new-fashioned  either.  His  hair  had 
the  peculiarity  of  always  looking  rumpled,  and 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  had  a  queer  downward 
pull,  that  might  indicate  ill-humor  or  the  love 
of  dry  fun  ;  but  the  upper  part  of  his  face — the 
brow  and  eyes — looked  shrewd  and  observing. 

"  Massy  sakes  alive !  "  exclaimd  the  old  lady 
up  in  the  third-story  window  as  she  happened 
to  glance  through  her  gold-bowed  specs  out  in 
to  the  street.  "  What  witch- work  is  that  girl 
about !  She  looks  crazy  and  acts  more  so  ;  but 


26  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

that  baby  in  her  lap  is  as  pretty  as  the  fust 
crocus." 

Now  the  man  in  the  front  parlor  window 
happened  to  be  the  Doctor  to  whom  the  wagon 
belonged  ;  and,  oddly  enough,  he  was  looking 
for  a  baby.  You  wonder,  perhaps,  that  he  had 
to  look  far  in  a  great  city  like  this,  that  is  just 
one  vast  nursery  ;  but  the  Doctor  thought  that 
he  was  a  judge  of  babies,  and  it  was  not  every 
specimen  that  would  have  suited  him. 

"  What  on  earth  is  that  girl  up  to  ?  "  said  the 
Doctor  to  himself  as  he  watched  the  uncon 
scious  Crow.  "  She  looks  like  an  animated 
stable-broom,  brush-end  up.  Whew !  that's  a 
neat  baby,  though.  Bet  a  copper  it's  been  kid 
napped." 

He  took  his  hat  and  strode  across  the  street. 
Between  the  curtains  at  the  back  of  the  buggy 
peeped  the  eye  of  a  young  ebony,  the  Doctor's 
hold-boy. 

"  As  I  live,  there  goes  John  to  speak  to  that 
girl ! "  exclaimed  the  old  lady  in  something  of 
a  flutter;  "  If  I  had  on  my  hair  front  and  my 
thicker  boots,  I'd  go  too  and  hear  the  confab." 

However,  she  opened  the  window,  and  in 
clined  her  good  ear  to  catch  what  she  could 


The  Professional  Baby.  27 

from  a  distance.     Gum,  the  hold-boy,  was  also 
taking  notes. 

As  soon  as  the  Doctor  approached,  Crow 
remembered  her  professional  air,  and  held  out 
her  hand  in  a  low-spirited  manner. 

"  Please,  sir,  wont  you  help  me  and  my  little 
sister.  We're  poor  orphins.  Mother's  sick  at 
home  ;  father  broke  his  leg  last  week,  and  had 
to  go  to  the  hospitable." 

"  O,  you're  orphans,  are  you  ?  Mother's  sick 
and  father's  in  the  hospital,  hey  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  that's  the  livin'  truth." 

The  Doctor's  face  twitched,  making  it  plain 
that  the  downward  pull  of  his  mouth  was  hu 
morous,  instead  of  ill-natured. 

Twinkle  was  blowing  great  big  blubbers  with 
her  bud  of  a  mouth  at  the  horsey-orsy  and 
buggy-uggy  over  the  way.  Now  she  looked  up 
into  the  Doctor's  face  and  laughed — a  bewitch 
ing  baby  accomplishment,  that  showed  her  pink 
gums,  studded  with  three  or  four  pearly  teeth. 
This  large,  loose-jointed  man  had  a  strange  fas 
cination  for  babies,  so  he  put  one  foot  on  the 
step,  and  his  blunt-ended  finger  found  its  way 
to  Twinkle's  cheek,  bringing  happy  gurgles  and 
dimples  in  plenty,  like  a  swarm  of  golden  but- 


28  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

terflies  hovering  about  a  rose.  All  this  time 
the  Crow's  professional  snuffle  went  on,  and  her 
grimy  hand  was  held  out  for  alms. 

Suddenly  the  Doctor  looked  at  her  with  his 
shrewd,  bright  eye.  "  Where  did  you  get  this 
baby  ? " 

"  She's  my  sister."  The  girl  clasped  Twinkle 
fiercely. 

"  You  lie."  That  was  cool ;  but  the  Doctor 
was  a  cool  person.  "  Do  you  see.  that  little 
building  down  there,"  he  continued.  "  Now 
tell  me  all  about  it,  or  I'll  whistle  for  some 
body,  and  we'll  have  an  examination." 

The  Crow  knew  this  little  building  well.  A 
police  officer  was  pacing  back  and  forth  before 
the  door.  She  shook  with  fear  until  her  bones 
almost  rattled  audibly ;  but  she  told  the  truth 
about  herself  and  about  Twinkle,  and  the  Doc 
tor  believed  her.  He  took  his  finger  away  from 
the  baby,  who  was  tugging  at  it  with  both  her 
puffy  little  hands,  and  called  out,  "  Hullo  !  Gum, 
wake  up  !  " 

Gum  was  any  thing  but  asleep.  He  removed 
his  eye  from  the  crack  with  a  respectful  "  Yes, 
sah  ; "  and  the  next  thing  the  astonished  old 
lady  saw,  from  her  perch  in  the  third-story 


The  Professional  Baby.  29 

window,  was  the  Doctor  putting  that  fright  of  a 
girl  and  the  little  fair-faced  baby  into  his  buggy. 
She  threw  up  the  sash  higher,  and  screamed 
after  him,  "  John  !  John  !  John  !  "  with  her  cap- 
strings  flying  and  her  gold-bowed  specs  in  great 
danger  of  tumbling  off  into  the  area.  But  he 
did  not  hear  her,  else  I  am  sure  he  would  have 
stopped  and  eased  his  mother's  mind,  who  firmly 
believed  he  had  gone  crazy,  for  the  Doctor  was 
a  good  and  dutiful  son. 

The  wheels  spun  round  on  the  noisy  pave 
ment,  and  away  went  that  queer  buggy  load  as 
fast  as  ever  it  could  toward  Mrs.  Neuralgia's. 
Twinkle  cried,  "  Goo  !  goo  !  goo  ! "  and  flapped 
her  arms  at  the  horse,  believing  she  was  in 
clover  this  time  if  never  before. 

Let  us  speed  on  ahead  of  them,  and  peer  in 
to  Mrs.  Neuralgia's  sick  chamber.  Her  house 
stands  in  a  solemn  corner,  that  always  looks  as  if 
it  were  trying  to  repent  of  something  ;  partly,  I 
suppose,  because  Mrs.  Neuralgia,  being  a  rich 
lady,  bribes  the  milkman  to  dispense  with  his 
unearthly  hoot  at  her  door,  and  pays  the  organ- 
grinders  so  much  a  month  for  skipping  her 
neighborhood.  She  firmly  believes  a  good 
healthy  noise  would  kill  her.  In  that  house  a 


30  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

creaking  door  is  a  high  crime  and  misdemeanor, 
and  any  thing  like  a  song,  a  whistle,  or  a  baby's 
crow,  would  be  worthy  of  capital  punishment. 

We  creep  up  the  carved  staircase,  along  the 
padded  hall,  and  enter  her  room  through  the 
keyhole,  in  true  spirit  fashion.  The  apartment 
is  artificially  close  and  shady.  Every  thing 
about  it  seems  sick,  even  to  the  handsome  pic 
tures  and  the  rich  carpet.  There  on  the  great 
bed  lies  a  pale,  languid  woman.  Another  silent, 
watchful  person  moves  like  a  ghost  about  the 
chamber. 

"  Lewis,"  says  a  feeble  voice,  "  have  you  got 
on  your  lasting  slippers  ? " 

"  No,  ma'am.  I  made  a  mistake,  and  put  on 
my  carpet-shoes." 

"  You  know,  Lewis " — there  was  a  slight 
touch  of  impatience  in  the  sweet  voice — "  noth 
ing  but  lasting  suits  my  sensitive  condition. 
I  thought  I  perceived  a  slight  squeak  about  the 
heels.  It  was  torture  to  me." 

"  I'll  change  'em  directly,  ma'am." 

"  That's  right.  Now  take  away  these  violets. 
Their  odor  is  too  oppressive.  I  think,  Lewis, 
there  must  be  the  least  little  draught  from  that 
window.  Are  you  sure  you  caulked  it  perfectly 


The  Professional  Baby.  3 1 

tight  ?  Do  light  a  taper  and  pass  it  before  the 
cracks.  A  draught,  Lewis,  in  my  condition, 
would  be  my  death-warrant." 

Just  then  the  front  door  banged  with  a  pro 
digious  report,  and  a  pair  of  heavy  stamping 
boots  were  heard  coming  up  the  stairs.  Lewis 
uttered  a  suppressed  scream  and  ran  to  the 
door.  As  for  Mrs.  Neuralgia,  she  gave  a  feeble 
shriek  and  went  off  into  hysterics. 

"  O,  Doctor,  you've  killed  my  mistress  ! " 
cried  the  maid,  wringing  her  hands. 

"  Nonsense !  Stand  back !  She  needs  air. 
She  shall  have  air.  That  is  all  that  ails  her." 
He  strode  to  the  window,  and  with  his  great 
hand  tore  away  all  the  swathings  and  caulkings, 
threw  open  the  sash,  and  let  a  smart  March 
breeze  blow  through  the  stale  room. 

The  invalid  hid  her  head  under  the  blankets, 
and  in  a  smothered  voice  cried  out,  "Doctor, 
you  are  a  heartless  assassin  !  " 

"  Monster  !  "  exclaimed  Lewis,  striking  a 
tragic  attitude  before  him,  and  flourishing  her 
arms  almost  too  near  his  nose  for  her  own 
personal  safety. 

"  Wretch ! "  gasped  Mrs.  Neuralgia,  more  and 
more  smothered  under  the  clothes. 


32  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

The  Doctor  sat  down  and  laughed  until  the 
tears  ran  down  his  brown  cheeks.  Now  there 
is  nothing  so  exasperating  as  the  laugh  of  a 
person  that  has  wronged  us,  if  we  happen  at 
the  same  time  to  be  upbraiding  "him.  Mrs. 
Neuralgia  was  dying  to  know  why  the  Doctor 
laughed,  so  she  made  an  excuse  to  breathe 
and  looked  out,  her  pretty,  soft  hair  a  good 
deal  tumbled,  and  her  face  wearing  an  angry 
flush. 

Instantly  he  checked  himself,  and  arose  as 
grave  as  a  deacon.  "  My  dear  madam,  com 
pose  yourself." 

"  Ugh !  Sir,  you  may  leave  my  house  in 
stantly,  and  never  come  back  again." 

"  Now,  my  dear  madam,"  (the  Doctor  could 
be  very  coaxing  when  he  tried,)  "  do  not  jeopard 
ize  your  health  and  happiness  by  a  fit  of  pique. 
I  have  brought  you  a  new  remedy  to-day,  one 
I  have  long  sought  in  vain  to  find.  It  has 
never  been  known  to  fail  of  curing  such  a  case 
as  yours." 

Mrs.  Neuralgia  looked  very  cold,  but  she 
did  not  repeat  her  command  ;  so  the  Doctor 
coaxed  more  and  more,  and  expatiated  on  the 
virtues  of  his  wonderful  new  remedy.  At  last 


The  Professional  Baby.  33 

female  curiosity  prevailed,  as  he  expected  it 
would. 

"  And  what  may  this  extraordinary  medicine 
be,  sir  ? "  asked  the  invalid,  very  stiffly. 

"  A  baby,  madam." 

"  O  !  O  ! "  Mrs.  Neuralgia  screamed  faintly  ; 
but  she  blushed  more,  and  tried  to  look  as  if 
she  meant  to  eat  that  horrible  Doctor  up,  but 
failed  badly. 

"  Lewis,"  said  the  Doctor  to  the  maid,  who 
was  particularly  savage,  "  go  down  to  my  buggy 
and  bring  up  a  baby  you  will  find  there." 

Lewis  knew  when  she  must  obey,  as  we  all 
do  when  we  find  a  master,  so  she  went  down. 
And  Mrs.  Neuralgia,  I  am  sure,  never  before 
passed  such  a  flustered  minute  and  a  half  as 
the  minute  and  a  half  that  Lewis  was  absent. 

When  she  came  back,  with  the  long  end  of 
Twinkle's  old  shawl  hanging  over  her  arm,  and 
the  Crow  (such  a  picture — she  had  burst  the 
last  three  hooks  of  her  dress)  following  on  be 
hind,  Mrs.  Neuralgia  exclaimed,  with  a  gesture 
of  disgust : 

"  Take  away  the  ugly,  dirty  thing  !  "* 

"  Hold  !  "    cried    the     persevering    Doctor  ; 

*  See  Frontispiece. 


34  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"  flowers  grow  in  the  dirt.  This  is  one  of  God's 
human  flowers,  raised  in  a  gutter,  but  just  as 
sweet  and  innocent  as  if  it  had  budded  in  your 
conservatory."  He  slipped  Twinkle,  with  these 
words,  out  of  a  sheath  of  old  rags,  (her  dress  un 
derneath  was  clean,  though  homely,)  and  laid 
the  little  creature  in  Mrs.  Neuralgia's  bosom. 
That  bosom  was  loving  and  womanly  in  spite 
of  the  imaginary  aches  and  pains  it  had  so  long 
petted. 

In  one  minute's  time  Twinkle's  cunning 
little  hand  was  patting  and  smoothing  her 
pretty  white  nest — we  all  know  the  power  of  a 
baby's  touch  ;  in  two  the  hand  had  crept  up  and 
made  acquaintance  with  the  sick  lady's  cheek  ; 
in  three  she  was  crowing,  with  all  her  dimples 
on  exhibition  ;  and  before  the  expiration  of  five 
minutes,  as  I  live,  Mrs.  Neuralgia  was  sitting  up 
in  bed,  just  as  if  she  owned  such  a  thing  as  a 
backbone,  holding  Twinkle  in  her  arms  ! 

The  upshot  of  it  was,  Twinkle  cured  Mrs. 
Neuralgia,  just  as  our  wise  Doctor  said  she 
would.  She  had  got  an  interest,  now,  outside 
of  herself — something  to  love  and  care  for. 
Accordingly,  in  a  month's  time  she  was  a  well 
woman,  going  about  her  great,  silent  house,  to 


The  Professional  Baby.  35 

bang  the  doors  and  set  every  thing  into  brisk, 
merry  motion. 

Twinkle  has  got  a  nursery  now,  and  plenty 
of  fine  toys,  lace  caps,  and  worked  dresses,  but 
she  is  the  same  even-tempered,  winsome  dar 
ling  as  before. 

The  Crow,  whom  people  have  learned  to  call 
by  her  right  name,  Lindy,  has  been  washed, 
brushed,  combed,  dressed  up  in  good  clothes, 
and  fed.  O,  it  took  a  prodigious  amount  to 
"  plumpen  "  her !  as  Tom  Malony  called  the  proc 
ess  ;  but  the  thing  has  been  done,  and  she  is 
now  Twinkle's  devoted  nursery-maid.  The 
sight  of  her  earnest,  happy  little  face  is  enough 
to  make  a  chronic  growler  tear  his  hair. 

Mrs.  Neuralgia  has  extended  her  acquaintance 
down  in  Cork  Alley,  and  about  Thanksgiving 
time  gets  as  far  as  Dublin-street  and  Backslum 
Corner,  dropping  her  nice  cards  along,  in  the 
form  of  fat  turkeys  and  chickens.  It  would 
seem  as  though  she  had  adopted  the  whole  Ma 
lony  family.  They  have  moved  into  nice  sun 
ny  rooms,  where  it  is  easy  to  keep  clean  and  be 
respectable.  Mary  has  got  a  sewing-machine 
now,  and  she  laughs  a  great  deal  more  and 

scolds  a  great  deal  less  than  she  used  to.     There 
3 


36  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

is  plenty  of  good  food  on  the  table,  and  warm 
clothing  on  the  children's  backs.  As  for 
Dennis  Malony,  he  is  dead  and  gone.  Mary 
sighs  as  she  looks  at  the  black  ribbon  on  her 
bonnet ;  but  her  heart  is  easy,  for  Dennis  was 
only  a  stumbling-stone  in  this  world,  and  we  can 
safely  leave  him  in  our  heavenly  Father's 
keeping. 

Tom  and  Sandy  go  to  school  now  as  regularly 
as  clock-work.  Every  morning,  when  they 
pass  Mrs.  Neuralgia's  with  bright,  rosy  faces, 
they  stop  to  kiss  their  hands  to  Twinkle,  who 
is  laughing  in  the  window.  Tom  is  at  the 
head  of  his  class,  and,  I  think,  rather  expects 
some  day  to  be  President  of  the  United  States. 
If  such  a  thing  ever  should  happen,  it  is  pretty 
clear  in  my  mind  that  his  old  hen  Speckle 
would  receive  the  appointment  of  Secretary  of 
State,  and  would  grace  the  station,  too,  better 
than  some  of  her  predecessors.  She  has  punc 
tually  performed  her  duty  ever  since  that  mem 
orable  beginning  made  on  the  old  refuse-barrel 
of  the  Crow's  mother.  Had  that  important 
event  never  occurred,  it  is  plain  to  see  the  Crow 
would  still  be  the  same  starved,  unkempt  creat 
ure  she  once  was  ;  the  Doctor  might  at  this 


The  Professional  Baby.  •  37 

moment  be  looking  for  an  infant ;  Mrs.  Neural 
gia,  in  all  probability,  would  lie  nursing  her  self 
ish  ailments  in  that  close,  shady  room  ;  and  our 
dear  sunshiny  little  Twinkle  continue  to  play 
the  part  of  a  professional  baby. 


38  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours. 


MERCY  DAVITS  AT  THE  ANCHOR. 


)HEE  had  better  cut  down  the  sign  to 
day,  Jacob." 

"  So  you  aren't  a-going  to  keep  up  the  old 
tavern  in  no  shape,  Miss  ?  " 

"  No !  and  thee  can  do  as  I  bid  thee,"  was 
the  soft-voiced  answer  without  amplification. 

"Wai,  now,  how  quare  that  seems  for  a 
Davits,"  responded  the  old  man,  in  a  drawling 
tone.  "  I've  lived  here  at  the  Anchor,  kept  by 
a  Davits,  from  the  time  I  was  a  boy  jest  big 
enough  to  hold  a  gen'leman's  horse,  and  now 
I'm  gwine  on  seventy,  and  stiff  in  the  jints. 
'Taint  likely  the  country  folks  are  going  to  see  the 
old  tavern  shet  without  opposition.  I'm  sorry 
to  be  obleeged  to  say  it,  Miss,  but  you'll  make 
yourself  onpoperler — and  you  be  dead  set,  too, 
agin  leasin'  or  sellin'.  Dunk  Ferguson  was 
mightily  put  out  because  you  wouldn't  take  up 
with  his  bid,  and  Dunk  is  an  ugly  customer 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  39 

when  he  gets  riled.  In  course,  if  you  say  so,  I 
must  cut  down  the  old  sign,  but  it  seems  like 
hangin'  my  best  friend.  I  shall  be  kind  o'  lost 
nights  not  to  hear  it  creakin'  and  groanin'  in 
the  wind." 

"  Thee  wont  hear  it  any  more,"  responded 
the  new  mistress,  cutting  short  Jacob's  long- 
windedness  with  admirable  brevity  and  her 
own  habit  of  coming  to  the  point ;  and  then 
the  little  Quakeress,  with  quiet  energy  printed 
all  over  her  small  person,  stepped  again  from 
the  tavern  porch  within  doors. 

It  was  fifty  years  or  more  ago,  before  the  days 
of  railroads ;  in  fact,  shortly  after  the  last  war  with 
England,  known  as  the  war  of  1 8 1 2.  The  homely, 
low-browed  tavern,  with  wide-spreading  button- 
balls  about  the  porch,  had  an  inviting  look  to 
tired  travelers,  who  journeyed  mainly  on  horse 
back,  or  in  their  own  conveyances.  Its  small 
paned  windows  sparkled  with  cleanliness  ;  and 
the  numerous  chimneys,  some, wen-like,  plastered 
on  the  outside,  and  others  rising  from  unexpect 
ed  places,  were  always  smoking  with  a  kind  of 
savory  invitation  to  a  good  meal.  The  Anchor 
was  no  low  and  slip-shod  country  inn.  It  had 
won  a  wide  reputation  for  comfort  and  good 


40  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

cheer,  and  its  prosperity  and  success  were 
handed  down  as  a  heritage  from  father  to 
son. 

Many  who  had  heard  the  fame  of  this  old- 
fashioned  public  diverged  some  miles  from  the 
turnpike,  and  main  traveled  line,  to  share  the 
comfort  of  its  excellent  beds  and  low-ceiled 
rooms,  with  their  sanded  floors,  and  heavy 
carved  furniture  shining  from  much  hand 
polish. 

A  great  change  had  come  over  the  Anchor, 
and  greater  changes  still  were  likely  to  follow. 
It  had  been  regularly  closed  for  three  months, 
owing  to  the  death  of  the  old  publican,  Silas 
Davits,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all  its  history 
had  fallen  to  a  woman  ;  and  the  community, 
who  had  a  stake  in  the  old  Anchor,  were  anx 
iously  waiting  to  see  what  would  follow. 

Mercy  Davits  stepped  out  of  the  clear  Sep 
tember  sunshine  into  the  best  room  of  the  public, 
the  place  which  had  always  been  reserved  for 
fine  company — the  "  quality  " — ladies  and  mili 
tia  captains,  and  circuit  judges,  and  traveling 
parsons.  It  was  wainscoted  and  ceiled  with 
old  oak  darkened  and  mellowed  by  time  ;  with 
deep  window  seats,  great  presses,  and  cupboards 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  41 

for  the  best  glass  and  china ;  straight,  high-back 
ed  chairs  of  stiff  and  formal  patterns,  and  curious 
spider-legged  tables.  One  side  was  taken  up 
with  a  vast  chimney-piece  and  fire-place  capable 
of  receiving  the  largest  size  back-log  and  fore- 
stick,  and  making  a  glowing  red  cheer  in  a 
winter  day. 

Back  of  this  extended  the  inn  kitchen,  where 
Lois  Gibbs,  the  one  hand-maiden  that  Mercy 
had  retained  in  her  service,  held  sway ;  and  far 
ther  on  was  the  stable-yard,  with  its  huge  barns 
and  sheds,  and  the  horse-trough  in  the  center 
flowing  over  from  a  perpetual  spring. 

Above,  in  the  second  story,  a  ball-room  ex 
tended  the  length  of  the  house.  It  was  the 
best  in  the  coifnty,  with  a  spring  floor  on  which 
old  Silas  Davits  had  specially  prided  himself. 
There  were  also  ranges  of  bed-rooms,  furnished 
with  mighty  high-posters,  valanced  and  cur 
tained  with  dimity,  and  spread  with  gay  patch 
work,  that  displayed  the  endless  patience  of 
Mercy's  grandmothers  and  great  aunts,  and 
women  of  a  later  date  belonging  to  the  tribe  of 
Davits. 

But,  curiously  enough,  the  apartment  most 
fascinating  to  the  new  mistress  was  the  old  bar- 


42  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

room.  It  was  strange  that  she  should  have 
fallen  heir  to  such  a  place.  A  room  solely 
devoted,  through  long  years,  to  men — dedicated 
to  their  grosser  appetites — had  now  become  the 
property  of  one  small  woman. 

A  smell  of  stale  spirits  lingered  about  the 
place  which  slightly  nauseated  the  new  mistress 
of  the  Anchor,  for  she  had  a  natural  aversion  to 
all  intoxicating  drinks.  Still,  she  peered  into 
corners  and  cubbies,  as  if  trying  to  discern  the 
charm  which  had  drawn  the  old  habitues  to 
this  spot,  which  had  misled  and  ruined  so  many 
for  whom  her  heart  ached.  The  place  should 
be  whitewashed  and  cleansed,  the  bar  itself  and 
the  shelves  and  bottle-racks  taken  down,  and 
split  up  into  kindling  wood.  * 

Further  than  this  Mercy  did  not  go.  She 
was  waiting  for  that  deep  inward  manifestation 
of  the  Spirit,  on  which  she  had  been  taught  to 
depend  for  guidance. 

Wherever  Mercy  went  about  the  house  she 
could  hear  the  blows  of  Jacob's  ax  as  it  ate  its 
way  into  the  heart  of  the  old  sign-post. 

She  had  stepped  out  on  the  porch  again  to 
bid  him  split  up  the  sign  and  kindle  a  fire 
with  it  on  the  best  room  hearth,  as  the  day  had 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  43 

grown  suddenly  cold,  but  stopped  as  she  saw  a 
traveler  ride  up  on  horseback  and  begin  to  par 
ley  with  the  old  man.  In  another  moment  he 
was  reining  in  his  high-spirited,  mettlesome 
horse  by  the  inn  porch. 

He  was  a  good-looking  man,  in  the  prime  of 
life,  with  bright  brown  hair  curling  up  under 
the  brim  of  his  hat,  a  straight  nose,  a  forehead 
like  ivory,  a  soft  silk-brown  beard,  worn  at  a 
period  when  beards  were  not  so  common  as 
they  now  are,  and  an  eye  that  glowed  at  times 
with  peculiar  splendor.  There  was  a  certain 
vascillating,  shifting  expression  about  the  lines 
of  his  face  hard  to  define,  and  a  shadow  of  weari 
ness  and  languor  would  now  and  then  cross  it 
— like  a  little  film  of  cloud  dropped  over  a  bright 
sky.  He  was  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
top  boots  and  cape  coat,  and  was  powerfully 
and  gracefully  built. 

"The  new  mistress,  I  presume,"  he  said. 
slightly  lifting  his  hat.  "I  am  sorry  to  see 
yonder  old  sign  come  down,"  he  added,  in  the 
tone  of  an  impatient  man  who  is  easily  moved 
to  a  certain  depth.  "  It  seems  needless  to  incom 
mode  the  public  by  shutting  a  place  that  has 
become  a  sort  of  land-mark  to  the  whole  country 


44  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

side.  And  now  I  suppose  neither  love  nor 
money  will  purchase  accommodation  here  for 
man  and  beast." 

"  Not  if  thee  expects  to  be  entertained  as  at 
an  inn,"  said  Mercy,  firmly  but  mildly.  "  This 
place  will  no  longer  be  kept  open  to  the  pub 
lic,  but  I  scarce  shall  deny  any  weary  person 
the  privilege  of  rest." 

"  Cold  comfort  that,"  returned  the  stranger, 
"  for  one  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of  taking 
his  ease  at  his  inn,  as  I  have  here  at  the  old 
Anchor  for  the  last  dozen  years,  and  my  nag  is 
so  well  used  to  stopping  at  this  door  whip 
and  spur  would  not  suffice  to  get  him  past.  To 
speak  the  truth,  I  am  myself  as  dry  as  a 
contribution  box.  I've  lost  my  reckoning,  the 
world  seems  turned  topsy-turvy.  I  knew  the 
old  Anchor  had  changed  hands,  and  there  was 
a  rumor  of  its  falling  to  a  woman,  a  granddaugh 
ter  of  old  Silas  Davits.  The  old  man's  sons  all 
drank  themselves  to  death,  and  more's  the  pity. 
They  were  the  freest,  best-hearted  fellows  to 
be  met,  but  all  a  little  weak  in  the  head.  Not 
one  of  them  could  keep  his  legs  after  the  third 
bottle.  I've  made  many  a  night  of  it  with  poor 
Will  and  Jerry  and  Stephen  ;  but  they  are  all 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  45 

gone,  and  the  old  man  went  off  in  the  tremens 
at  last,  tough  as  he  was." 

These  last  sentences  he  had  uttered  more  to 
himself  than  to  his  listener,  and  looking  up  now 
with  a  softened  expression,  he  added,  "  Pardon 
me  ;  this  may  be  painful  to  you." 

"  I  felt  great  concern  for  the  state  of  my  kin 
dred,"  said  Mercy,  "  though  I  saw  them  not  in 
my  youth,  and  gained  all  I  knew  from  hearsay. 
My  honored  father  was  Hosea  Davits,  son  of 
Silas,  who  separated  himself  from  his  people, 
and  went  out  from  among  them." 

"  I  well  remember,"  said  the  Stranger ;  "  he 
was  the  only  pious  Davits  ever  heard  of.  This 
tavern  has  been  kept  by  a  Davits  for  many  gen- 
rations,  and  they  have  all  been  more  famous  for 
deep  drinking  than  for  much  praying." 

"  Out  of  thy  own  mouth  I  find  a  reason  for 
shutting  this  place,"  returned  Mercy.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  balk  honest  travelers,  and  where  there 
is  pressing  need  I  will  not  deny  them  food  and 
shelter  ;  but  it  is  borne  in  upon  my  mind  that 
I  must  not  permit  the  sale  of  liquor  here,  where 
it  has  wrought  much  misery  to  many  of  my 
own  name." 

"  A  woman's  crotchet,"  responded  the  other. 


46  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"  Thee  forgets,"  returned  Mercy  gravely,  "  not 
my  will,  but  God's  will." 

"  Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  think  the  whole 
country-side  will  rise  and  mutiny  against  your 
resolve  to  shut  the  Anchor,  for  where  will  the 
Circuit  Courts  be  held,  where  will  the  coroner 
and  his  twelve  men  sit,  where  will  the  young 
folks  come  for  junkets,  and  the  old  folks  to  hear 
the  news  and  spin  yarns  ? " 

"  I  cannot  tell  thee,  friend.  I  only  know  I 
must  bear  my  testimony  against  the  traffic  of 
spirits,  that  much  sin  and  crime  may  be  done 
away." 

"  Don't  speak  so  spitefully  against  good,  honest 
drink,"  cried  the  other.  "  Many  a  glorious  bout  I 
have  had  in  yonder  room.  You  never  have  heard 
of  me,  I  dare  say ;  but  I  am  Miles  Corry,  of  the 
Pines;  and  it  would  indeed  be  a  great  accom 
modation  to  me  and  my  beast  if  you  would 
allow  us  to  remain  for  the  night." 

"Thee  is  welcome  to  stay,"  returned  Mercy, 
"  if  thee  can  content  thyself  with  plain  fare.  If 
thee  wishes  thee  can  sit  in  the  bar-room  where 
those  aforesaid  glorious  bouts  were  held." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  other  gayly  as  he 
swung  himself  off  his  horse,  "  you  would  bring 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor..  47 

me  to  repentance  by  leaving  me  alone  to  think 
over  my  sins.  You  would  like  to  make  a  con 
vert  of  such  a  reckless  fellow  as  I  am  I'll  be 
bound.  Perhaps  you  yet  hope  to  see  me  in 
a  broad  brim  and  a  long-tailed  drab." 

"  Thee  may  not  be  as  reckless  as  thee  would 
have  it  appear.  There  are  those  who  put  on  an 
air  of  impiety  to  cover  an  aching  heart.  I  do 
not  think  thee  a  blasphemer,  or  naturally  a  wine- 
bibber  ;  but  thee  might  use  a  round  oath,  or 
drink  much  too  deep  to  seem  as  bad  as  thy 
company." 

Miles  colored  and  began  to  laugh,  then 
checked  himself  and  gave  the  little,  quirt,  drab 
figure  before  him  a  sharp  look.  "  Shrewd,  and 
wonderfully  observing,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

Old  Jacob  had  taken  his  horse  away,  and  the 
guest,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  was  stroll 
ing  about  the  empty  bar-room  and  whistling  to 
keep  his  courage  up.  A  restless,  fidgety  man 
like  Miles  Corry  was  not  likely  to  stay  long  in 
such  a  place  content  with  the  companionship 
of  his  own  thoughts.  Before  many  minutes  had 
passed  he  crossed  the  entry,  and  tapped  lightly 
at  the  best  room  door. 

"  Come  in,"  was  the  answer,  and,  opening  the 


48  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours. 

door,  he  found  Mercy  on  her  knees  blowing 
away  at  some  kindling  sticks  in  the  deep  fire 
place. 

"  I  thought,  Miss  Davits,  you  could  not  deny 
me  a  little  of  your  company.  I  am  but  the  worst 
possible  comrade  for  myself  at  any  time,  and 
that  other  room  is  as  dreary  as  a  burying-ground 
on  a  dark  night,  full  of  ghosts  and  grave 
stones." 

"  Thee  may  enter,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  I 
would  choose  that  thee  call  me  Mercy,  and  I 
will  call  thee  Miles,  after  the  custom  of  my 
own  people." 

"  I  don't  object  in  the  least,"  said  Miles,  ad 
vancing  into  the  room  in  his  frank,  easy,  famil 
iar  way,  and  seating  himself  in  a  cushioned 
chair.  "  Mercy  is  a  pretty  name,  but  I  fear  it's 
small  mercy  you  would  show  me  if  you  had  me 
in  your  power.  You  would  cut  off  my  bitters, 
and  take  away  my  toddy,  and  abolish  all  the 
beverages  in  between,  that  a  dry  and  thirsty- 
soul  craves.  You  would  frown  upon  my  pet 
follies  and  foibles,  and  clip,  and  shear,  and  prune 
me  until  I  should  not  know  my  own  face  in  the 
glass." 

"  Godliness  is  great  gain,"  said  Mercy,  with- 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  49 

out  any  intimation  of  a  smile  in  her  eyes  ;  in 
fact,  she  was  deficient  in  the  sense  of  humor, 
"but  I  would  not  have  thee  put  on  the  outward 
semblance  without  the  inward  and  renewing 
spirit,  and  that  thee  cannot  get  without  loving 
something  far  better  than  thyself — without  put 
ting  thyself  under  the  guidance  of  duty." 

"  Duty  go  hang,"  laughed  Miles.  "  I  have 
always  chosen  to  do  what  was  agreeable  to  my 
self.  My  fond,  doting  mother  gave  me  my  way 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  have  managed  to  get 
it  ever  since.  There,"  he  added,  "is  the  old 
sign  crackling  in  the  flames.  I  can  partly  make 
out  the  faded  anchor.  They  dance  about  as  if 
they  had  a  sinner  in  their  clutches.  I  dare 
say  that  is  the  fate  to  which  you  would  consign 
us  poor  worldlings." 

"  Thee  should  not  misjudge  me,"  said  Mercy 
gravely.  "  I  am  in  no  way  eager  to  thrust  any 
human  creature  into  the  fire.  And,  perchance, 
it  means  only  the  undying  heat  and  stress  of 
remorse,  that  burns  forever  without  consuming ; 
neither  am  I  so  strait-laced  by  my  creed  as  thee 
may  suppose.  Though  I  love  the  Friends' 
garb  and  plain  language,  still  do  I  feel  there 
may  be  those  who  attend  steeple-houses,  and 


50  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours. 

dress  in  the  guise  of  world's  people,  who  strive 
after  the  higher  life  through  a  meek  and  quiet 
spirit.  I  will  own  unto  thee  that  I  cannot  re 
gard  psalmody  as  some  of  my  brethren  do. 
There  are  times  when  I  feel  I  must  break  forth 
into  singing  to  give  vent  to  the  praise  that 
rises  in  my  soul  like  a  fountain  of  living 
waters." 

Miles,  as  he  stirred  the  fire  with  a  pair  of 
tongs,  looked  furtively  at  Mercy,  as  if  he  had  at 
last  found  what  he  had  long  been  seeking,  a 
new  type  of  woman. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  sincerity,"  he  said,  with 
involuntary  respect,  "but  it's  confoundedly  in 
convenient  to  have  the  old  Anchor  closed  just 
now.  I  meant  to  make  it  my  head-quarters  in 
the  coming  canvass,  and  on  election  day  to 
broach  a  cask  of  liquor  on  the  green,  and  invite 
my  friends  and  constituents  to  make  themselves 
gloriously  happy  at  my  expense.  You  must 
know  I  am  up  for  member  of  the  next  Congress. 
I  bear  a  name  much  honored  about  here,  for  my 
father  was  a  staunch  man  in  Revolutionary  days. 
For  myself,  I  have  not  done  any  thing  as  yet 
but  enjoy  life.  It  has  seemed  so  easy  to  do  fine 
things  I  have  hardly  thought  it  worth  while  to 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  5 1 

try.  But  now  my  friends  are  bent  on  my  making 
a  figure  in  public  life.  The  women  compli 
ment  me  specially  with  their  patronage,  but  I 
never  need  look  for  flattery  from  you,  Mistress 
Mercy." 

"I  should  say,"  returned  Mercy,  studying 
him  a  moment,  with  her  calm,  steady  eyes, 
"that  thee  is  comely,  with  many  gifts  to  win 
favors,  but  thee  knows  these  things  too  well." 

"  And  you  are  very  plain  of  speech,"  returned 
Miles,  slightly  flushing. 

"  I  could  not  tell  thee  a  lie,"  returned  Mercy, 
"and  perhaps  thee  has  not  heard  the  truth 
spoken  often  enough  for  thy  good.  I  would 
caution  thee  against  supposing  that  obstinacy 
and  a  perverse  will  have  caused  me  to  close  this 
place.  Before  I  was  brought  to  testify  against 
the  use  of  strong  drink  my  heart  was  drawn  to 
an  inward  stillness.  Intoxication  is  the  curse 
of  this  neighborhood.  Every-where  it  is  an 
open  practice.  The  preacher,  whose  duty  it  is 
to  warn  and  guide  his  flock,  has  liquors  set  out 
upon  his  sideboard,  and  offers  them  freely  to  all 
comers.  So  does  Squire  Wentworth,  who  lives 
in  yonder  stone  mansion,  and  is  counted  a  lamp 
and  light  in  Israel.  I  would  they  might  be 


52  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

pricked  in  the  conscience,  and  made  to  see  the 
error  of  their  ways." 

"  I  do  not  bother  my  head  about  the  parson's 
shortcomings  or  the  Squire's  backslidings," 
said  Miles  carelessly  ;  "  but  if  you  were  to  speak 
of  the  Squire's  youngest  daughter,  Leah,  that 
would  be  a  different  matter." 

"  Neighbor  Leah  Wentworth  is  known  to 
me,"  returned  Mercy. 

"  She  is  not  a  bad  wench,"  Miles  resumed. 
"  She  has  a  well-turned  ancle,  and  a  bright  eye  ; 
and,  even  at  the  risk  of  strengthening  your 
opinion  of  my  conceit,  I  will  tell  you  what 
every  body  knows  already,  that  Leah  is  fond  of 
me.  I  do  not  say  but  what  I  have  given  the 
girl  some  cause,  but  it's  a  perplexing  business 
to  know  how  to  manage  the  women  when  you 
are  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  a  general  favorite. 
A  good-natured  man  is  apt  to  say  more  than  he 
means,  and  to  raise  false  hopes.  There  are 
times  when  little  Leah  wearies  me,  and  I  do  not 
care  a  copper  ha'penny  for  her,  and  other  times 
she  amuses  me  well  enough.  They  say  a  de 
termined  woman  can  always  marry  the  one  she 
lays  herself  out  to  get,  and  perhaps  Leah  will 
be  my  fate  after  all.  There  is  something  posi- 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  53 

tively  frightful  in  the  way  an  easy  man  like 
myself  is  subject  to  the  other  sex." 

There  was  much  in  Mercy's  face  that  remained 
unuttered,  for  just  then  a  hand  tapped  the  door. 
It  was  Lois  Gibbs  bringing  in  tea.  Lois  was 
a  substantial,  springless  woman,  who  set  her 
foot  down  very  flat  and  toed  in.  She  had  the 
mouth  and  chin  of  a  great  talker,  a  persistent 
habit  of  putting  in  her  oar,  which  Mercy  was 
trying  to  curb,  and  an  expression  which  denoted 
general  and  entire  satisfaction  with  herself,  and 
great  immovableness  of  opinion. 

"  O,  Mr.  Cony,"  said  she,  setting  down  the 
tray,  and  dropping  two  or  three  "  kerchies  "  in 
succession,  "  it's  good  for  sore  eyes  to  see  you 
here  once  more.  But  times  is  changed,  sir,  sad 
ly  since  the  old  boss  died,  and  you  used  to  be 
coming  here  to  see  Master  Will  and  Master 
Steve,  calling  for  your  bottle  free  and  hearty, 
like  any  gentleman  should,  and  chucking  the 
maids  under  the  chin.  And  there  was  the  old 
master  always  a  bawling  to  the  stable-boys, 
and  coming  to  the  kitchen  to  hurry  up  meals. 
There  was  plenty  of  noise  and  confusement  then, 
sir,  and  a  deal  of  fine  company.  You've  got  a 
beautiful  stiddy  head,  sir.  It's  something  to  be 


54  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

proud  on.  I've  seen  you  walk  as  straight  as  an 
arrer  when  most  of  the  others  was  lying  under 
the  table.  Them  were  glorious  times,  sir ;  but 
then  things  began  to  change.  Master  Will  he 
went  first,  and  his  poor  little  foolish  wife,  she 
that  was  Abby  Sprague,  mourned  herself  to  death 
up  in  the  north-east  chamber.  Many  a  time, 
when  I'd  cook  her  a  dainty  to  coax  her  poor 
appertite,  she'd  say,  'I  couldn't  eat  a  crumb, 
Lois,  to  save  my  life  ;  there's  a  great  load  on  my 
heart.' " 

Lois  came  to  a  period  for  want  of  breath. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miles,  "  the  old  days  are  past 
and  gone,  but  I'll  be  bound  your  new  mistress 
will  treat  you  well." 

"  I've  no  fault  to  find,  sir,  but  I've  been  used 
to  excitement  and  having  things  lively,  and  it's 
hard  to  put  up  with  a  dull  life,  and  nobody  but 
old  Jacob  snoring  in  the  chimney-corner  of 
an  evening." 

Mercy  gave  her  handmaiden  a  look  which 
she  must  have  understood,  for  the  stream  of 
loquacity  suddenly  dried  up,  and  Miss  Gibbs 
went  out  of  the  room. 

The  still  fire  was  eating  its  way  into  the 
heart  of  the  well-seasoned  wood,  and  casting 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  55 

long  inquisitive  beams  into  deep  corners  ;  there 
were  wax  candles  burning  on  the  mantle-piece, 
and  a  little  polished  table  stood  between  Miles 
and  Mercy  that  reflected  the  steamy,  fragrant 
silver  tea-pot,  and  the  best  company  china,  set 
out  with  a  very  nice  and  dainty  array  of  Lois's 
cookery.  As  she  poured  the  tea  Miles  bethought 
him  to  make  a  close  and  critical  study  of  his 
companion's  face.  There  was  a  very  pretty 
light  thrown  upon  it.  It  was  comely  and  well 
colored,  with  a  pure  skin,  finely  penciled  eye 
brows,  a  forehead  squared  a  little  by  decision 
and  character,  a  gray  eye,  soft,  yet  penetrating, 
a  firm  chin,  a  mouth  red  and  well  curved,  and 
by  no  means  unkissable.  The  thick  wavy  tresses 
of  hair  were  drawn  under  a  muslin  cap  of  the 
plainest  pattern,  and  kerchief  of  the  same  was 
folded  across  her  bosom. 

"  You  are  younger  than  I  thought,"  said 
Miles,  who  had  at  last  separated  Mercy  from 
her  demure  costume  and  strange  language. 

"  I  am  twenty  six,  if  thee  wishes  to  know," 
replied  Mercy. 

"And  here  I  have  been  talking  as  if  you 
were  the  age  of  my  grandmother." 

"  It  is  best  thee  should  always  think  qf  mg  as 


56  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

an  elderly  woman,  for  I  have  no  taste  for  vain 
and  idle  converse." 

"  I  shall  always  be  obliged  to  tell  you  the 
truth,"  said  Miles,  "  however  much  it  may 
damage  me  in  your  eyes."  And  then  Miles  be 
thought  himself  that  it  would  be  very  interest 
ing  to  probe  a  little  way  beneath  the  Quaker 
drab  and  set  speech  and  find  out  what  live  emo 
tions  of  womanhood  inhabited  his  companion's 
breast.  He  was  prepared  to  begin  the  investiga 
tion  when  the  light  from  a  lantern  flashed  past 
the  pane. 

"  There  now  is  my  neighbor,  Leah,  come 
with  her  father's  old  black  serving  man  to  pass 
the  evening." 

"  I  though  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Leah's  face 
at  the  window  as  I  rode  by  the  Squire's,"  said 
Miles,  with  a  shade  of  annoyance  in  his  tone. 

In  another  moment  the  visitor  was  in  the 
room.  She  was  too  demonstrative  perhaps  to 
please  Mercy,  who  freed  herself  as  soon  as  she 
could  from  the  girl's  embrace.  Then  there  was 
a  little  feigned  surprise  at  finding  Miles  there, 
which  Mercy  in  her  straightforwardness  and 
simplicity  did  not  approve. 

Leah   had  a  pretty,  round   form,   of  whose 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  57 

charms  her  scant,  short-waisted  brocade  gown, 
in  the  fashion  of  the  day,  was  perhaps  some 
what  too  liberal.  Her  light  hair  had  a  trick  of 
slipping  out  of  the  comb  just  at  the  right  mo 
ment,  and  adding  to  the  picturesqueness  of  her 
appearance  by  its  billowy,  wave-like  masses. 
Her  complexion  was  by  no  means  perfect,  nor 
were  her  teeth  altogether  regular.  Her  nose 
elevated  itself  slightly ;  but  she  had  a  pair  of 
fine  eyes,  which  she  rolled  up  and  used  with  ad 
mirable  effect  while  making  her  sentimental  lit 
tle  speeches. 

"  I  came  over  to  sit  with  you  an  hour,  Mercy," 
said  Leah,  seating  herself  on  a  cricket  by  the 
fire,  and  pulling  from  her  pocket  a  little  scarlet 
purse  which  she  was  knitting.  "  I  thought  you 
might  be  lonely  in  this  great,  empty  place,  and 
would  welcome  even  such  poor  company  as 
mine,  and  here  I  find  an  old  friend  already  be 
fore  me." 

"  She  was  loth  enough  to  take  me  in,"  said 
Miles,  extending  his  feet  lazily  toward  the  heat, 
"  but  now  I  have  gained  a  foothold  I  shall  be 
apt  to  pester  her  pretty  often." 

"  No  wonder  this  old  haunt  has  such  charms 
for  you  still,"  responded  Leah,  with  a  slight 


58  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

lisp.  "I  always  knew  your  attachments  were 
ardent." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  returned  Miles,  who  loved  to 
tease  her.  "I  am  as  fickle  as  the  wind,  or  a 
bee  among  clover.  A  pretty  face  never  pleases 
me  long.  I  am  always  ready  to  sip  the  dew 
from  a  fresh  flower." 

"  Don't  believe  a  word  he  says  ! "  cried  Leah, 
in  a  little  characteristic  outburst.  "  He  has  a 
good  heart,  take  my  word  for  it." 

The  deep  red  glow  from  the  fire  was  shining 
on  Mercy's  quiet  face  and  demure  drab.  The 
contrast  could  hardly  have  been  greater  than  it 
was  between  her  and  Leah  in  her  flowered  bro 
cade — her  hair  already  down,  and  all  the  color 
about  her  coming  to  a  focus  in  the  bit  of  scarlet 
in  her  lap.  Mercy  was  knitting  a  gray  stock 
ing,  and  as  she  turned  the  needle  she  said :  "  I 
dare  believe  Miles  Corry  is  better  and  worse 
than  he  would  make  himself  out." 

"  You  need  not  expect  her  to  flatter  me,"  said 
Miles,  who  dearly  loved  to  hear  himself  talked 
about,  and  to  play  off  one  woman  against 
another.  "  She  will  tell  me  more  plain  home 
truths  in  an  hour  than  I  should  hear  in  forty 
sermons  ;  and  I  do  believe  if  I  should  get  down 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  59 

on  my  knees  to  her,  and  beg  for  a  glass  of  hot 
toddy,  she  would  not  feel  even  a  twinge  of  pity 
for  the  infirmities  of  the  flesh." 

"Thee  knows  I  have  made  a  rule,"  was  all 
Mercy  said  as  she  turned  a  needle. 

"  But  you  will  break  your  rule  this  time  ? " 
coaxed  Leah,  getting  hold  of  one  of  Mercy's 
hands.  "  What  can  there  be  so  bad  in  a  glass 
of  bitters  ?  My  father  takes  his  night  and 
morning,  and  he  is  held  in  much  estimation  for 
piety." 

"  Thy  father  orders  his  house  to  suit  himself," 
returned  Mercy  gently,  "and  so  do  I  mine. 
There  is  One  only  to  whom  I  must  give  an  ac 
count  of  my  stewardship.  But  were  I  ever  so 
much  disposed  to  give  Miles  the  liquor,  it  is  out 
of  my  power.  There  is  not  a  drop  of  spirits  in 
the  house." 

"  Not  a  drop  ? "  Miles  repeated  in  astonish 
ment.  "To  my  certain  knowledge  there  are, 
in  the  cellar,  shelves  filled  with  dusty,  cob- 
webbed  bottles  worth  their  weight  in  gold,  and 
great  casks  of  wine  that  have  never  been 
broached." 

"  I  have  emptied  every  drop  of  their  con 
tents,"  replied  Mercy,  without  a  shade  of  emo- 


60  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

tion  ;  "  and  thee  must  know  that  the  poison 
spilled  upon  the  ground  will  never  burn  the 
stomach  or  craze  the  brain  of  any  human 
being." 

"  O,  sacrilege  ! "  groaned  Miles.  "  To  think 
of  all  that  noble  liquor  wasted  !  That  priceless 
stuff  that  has  been  ripening  and  mellowing, 
gathering  tone  and  color  for  years,  thrown 
away !  I  wonder  old  Silas  Davits,  who  stored 
it  and  prized  it  as  the  apple  of  his  eye,  did  not 
groan  in  his  coffin !  But,  speaking  seriously, 
I  fear  this  rash  act  will  give  you  trouble.  Dunk 
Ferguson,  I  understand,  is  very  angry  because 
you  refused  to  lease  him  the  place.  He  is  a 
kind  of  leader  among  the  desperate,  rough 
characters,  of  whom  there  are  many  in  this 
neighborhood,  and  if  he  should  bring  them 
here  some  day  in  a  half-intoxicated  state,  there 
is  no  telling  what  the  devil  might  tempt  him 
to  do." 

"  But  what  harm  could  he  devise  ? "  inquired 
Mercy,  looking  up. 

"  He  could  burn  the  old  tavern  over  your  head, 
and  he  would  not  scruple  if  his  blood  was  up." 

"  I  shall  go  forward  in  the  way  the  Lord  has 
appointed,"  was  Mercy's  answer. 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  61 

"And  do  you  think  a  miracle  will  be  per 
formed  on  purpose  to  aid  you  ? " 

"I  know  not,"  the  reply  came,  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause.  "I  see  the  path  of  duty  plain 
before  me.  What  the  consequences  to  myself 
may  be  I  cannot  stop  to  consider." 

They  all  sat  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  Leah 
rose  to  go  home,  and  Miles  offered  to  accom 
pany  her.  Mercy  stepped  into  the  kitchen  to 
light  her  lantern. 

"  She's  a  stiff  old  maid,  isn't  she  ? "  whispered 
Leah. 

"Not  so  much  older  than  yourself;  and  were 
it  not  for  her  Quaker  cut  she  would  be  a  hand 
some  little  woman." 

Leah  turned  her  back  and  began  to  pout,  but 
Miles  managed  to  dispel  the  jealous  fit  by  steal 
ing  a  kiss.  The  way  to  Squire  Wentworth's 
was  not  long.  Miles  was  absent  an  hour  or 
more,  and  before  he  returned  Mercy  had  disap 
peared.  The  next  morning  Lois  gave  him  an 
early  breakfast,  and  he  rode  away  without  see 
ing  the  mistress  of  the  Anchor. 

A  fortnight  passed  away  peacefully  enough. 
The  first  hard  frost  had  come  to  sear  the  fields  ; 
the  October  tang  was  in  the  air,  and  the  woods 


62  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

flushed  with  many  colors.  Old  Jacob  came 
haltingly  into  the  presence  of  Mercy.  The 
cold  snap  had  given  a  tightening  screw  to  all 
his  joints. 

"  I  thought  I  ought  to  let  you  know  this  is 
muster  day,"  whined  he.  "  The  train-bands 
will  be  out  with  flying  colors,  and  all  the  rag, 
tag,  and  bobtail  at  their  heels.  The  old  master 
always  expected  a  big  carouse  on  trainin'  day. 
Dunk  Ferguson  may  come  here  and  threaten 
wiolence  unless  liquor  is  brought  out.  Now, 
hadn't  I  better  get  down  the  old  shot-gun  from 
the  garret,  overhaul  it,  and  put  in  a  primin'  ? 
It's  the  same  trusty  arm  that  one  of  the  fight 
ing  Davits,  long  ago,  tuk  intu  the  Revolution. 
It  kicks  pretty  bad,  and  misses  fire  nine  times 
out  of  ten  ;  but  it  might  scare  some  o'  them 
scalliwags  to  see  it  pinted  out  of  the  window." 

"God  forbid,"  said  Mercy,  "that  I  should 
meet  violence  with  violence.  Does  not  the 
good  Book  bid  thee  bless  them  that  curse  thee, 
and  do  good  to  them  that  despitefully  use  thee, 
and  if  any  man  smite  thee  on  the  right  cheek 
to  turn  to  him  the  left  also  ?  " 

"  Dunno,"  said  Jacob,  scratching  his  head, 
"  I'm  no  great  Bible  scollard.  I  could  tell  you 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  63 

more  about  the  pints  of  a  horse.  But  I  favor 
old  Leviathan  law,  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth 
for  a  tooth.  If  any  man  should  whack  me  on 
the  cheek,  I'd  be  pretty  apt  to  whack  him  on 
the  jowl." 

The  morning  hours  slipped  quietly  by,  and 
the  short  autumn  day  was  drawing  to  a  close, 
when  Lois  and  Jacob  rushed  in  with  frightened 
faces  to  announce  that  the  roysters  were  com 
ing  down  the  road  as  tipsy  as  loons. 

"  They've  half  fuddled  themselves  at  Poole's 
on  the  Pike,"  explained  old  Jacob,  in  a  nervous 
tremor,  "  and  now  they're  calling  for  drink  here, 
like  so  many  dry  devils." 

"  Go  and  tell  them,"  Mercy's  low  voice  was 
scarcely  raised  at  all,  though  her  face  was  a 
shade  paler,  "  to  get  quietly  away  from  here  or 
they  will  suffer  the  penalty  of  the  law."  . 

"  There  aint  no  law  they're  afeard  of,"  whined 
the  old  man.  "  Dunk  rides  rough-shod  over 
the  Justice  when  he's  in  liquor,  and  he  likes  a 
drop  too  well  himself  to  fine  him  over  a  few  shil 
lings.  They  hate  a  Quaker  like  pison.  Nothing 
but  the  old  shootin'  iron  would  do  a  mite  o' 
good." 

"  I  bid  thee  go  and  command  them  in   my 


64  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

name  to  leave  this  place,  and  not  to  break  the 
peace." 

Jacob  must  needs  obey,  though  he  quaked  in 
every  limb  ;  and  the  mistress  of  the  Anchor,  by 
a  supreme  effort  of  will,  stayed  where  she  was, 
within  doors.  It  seemed  as  though  her  heart 
stopped  beating  as  she  strained  her  sense  of 
hearing  to  catch  the  sounds  from  without. 

Then  came  the  tramping  of  feet,  a  burst  of 
wild  singing,  and  afterward  jeers,  and  hoots,  and 
drunken  curses,  as  Jacob  attempted  to  speak. 
The  clamor  grew  into  an  uproar,  above  it  were 
shrieks  of  the  old  serving-man.  In  an  instant 
Mercy  had  darted  through  the  hall,  up  the  stairs, 
and  out  upon  a  balcony  that  projected  from  the 
second  story  window.  Below  her  was  a  rabble 
of  lewd  fellows  in  every  stage  of  intoxication. 
Some  of  the  lads,  mere  boys,  were  decked  in 
cock's  feathers  and  paper  epaulets.  Dunk 
Ferguson  carried  a  cudgel,  and  was  flourishing 
it  about  old  Jacob's  ears,  choking  the  old  man, 
who  hung  down  white  and  limp  by  his  neck- 
handkerchief. 

Dunk  was  powerfully  built,  with  a  fiery  face, 
heavy  jaw,  straight  black  hair,  and  a  very  rest 
less  evil  eye. 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  65 

The  moment  Mercy  stepped  forward  on  the 
balcony,  and  lifted  her  hand  to  speak,  a  yell 
went  up  from  the  reeling  crowd  that  effectually 
drowned  her  voice. 

"We'll  stop  your  mouth,  you  canting  Quaker," 
cried  Dunk  with  an  oath  and  the  action  of  a 
fiend,  and  instantly  sticks,  stones,  brick-bats, 
old  bottles,  any  thing  and  every  thing  the  gang 
had  armed  themselves  with  or  could  pick  up 
from  the  road,  began  to  fly  through  the  air. 
The  glass  of  some  of  the  windows  was  shivered 
to  atoms. 

In  the  midst  of  this  demoniac  din,  all  aimed 
and  directed  at  herself,  stood  Mercy,  with  her 
hand  uplifted  as  if  turned  to  stone.  The  mis 
siles  flew  mostly  wide  of  the  mark,  owing  to 
the  extreme  tipsiness  of  the  assailants,  else  her 
danger  would  have  been  imminent. 

Dunk  Ferguson  had  just  proposed  to  batter 
down  the  door  and  open  the  cellars  in  search 
of  liquor,  and  to  see  whether  the  Quaker  woman 
had  lied,  when  Mercy,  as  in  a  nightmare,  saw  a 
figure  spurring  along  the  road,  plunging  his 
rowels  deep  in  the  sides  of  his  foaming  beast. 
Instantly,  like  a  flash  of  light,  Miles  Corry  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  rabble.  She  saw  the  butt 


66  Stories  for  Leistire  Hours. 

end  of  his  heavy  riding  whip  descend  with  light 
ning  speed  about  the  head  and  face  of  Dunk 
Ferguson.  Once,  twice,  three  times  it  came 
down,  and  then  there  was  a  great,  ugly  gash, 
and  the  man's  dark  cheek  was  streaming  with 
blood. 

Mercy  was  sick  with  horror,  but  she  saw  and 
heard  all.  Dunk,  down  on  his  knees,  was  shak 
ing  his  fist  in  the  air. 

"  I'll  take  my  revenge  out  of  your  flesh  and 
blood,  Miles  Corry.  I'll  take  i.t  out  of  your 
heart." 

"  You  whelp,  you  cur,  you  mean,  dastardly 
sneak,"  cried  Miles,  pale  to  the  very  lips,  "  to 
dare  come  here  and  attack  a  defenseless  woman. 
I'll  see  you  grinning  through  the  bars  of  a  cage 
before  many  days  are  over." 

Dunk,  faint  from  loss  of  blood,  fell  over  upon 
his  side,  and  some  of  his  companions,  who  could 
walk  with  a  degree  of  steadiness,  hurried  him 
away  down  the  road.  The  place  was  cleared 
of  the  rioters  in  less  than  five  minutes.  One 
straggler,  a  ragged,  hatiess  fellow,  had  fallen 
down  under  a  tree,  and  was  left  behind. 

Mercy  had  gone  down  into  the  road,  and 
Miles,  who  had  followed  the  retreating  rabble 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  67 

but  a  few  paces,  turned  eagerly  back  to  inquire 
if  she  had  escaped  without  hurt. 

"  I  have  not  a  scratch  upon  me,"  she  replied 
in  a  faltering  voice,  reaching  him  her  hand,  and 
pressing  his  gratefully.  "  In  the  good  providence 
of  God  I  owe  my  safety  to  thee.  This  day's 
work  has  wrought  a  bond  between  us  I  shall 
never  forget.  It  has  made  me  thy  friend 
through  evil  report  and  through  good  report. 
Though  I  deplore  the  shedding  of  blood,  I  can 
but  deem  it  noble  in  thee  to  so  venture  for  my 
sake." 

"  Pooh,"  said  Miles  lightly,  more  affected  by 
her  look  and  tone  than  he  was  willing  to  show. 
"  It  was  nothing.  I  thought  no  more  of  it  than 
scattering  a  herd  of  swine." 

"  Now  thee  sees  the  evils  of  strong  drink,  as 
I  do,  thee  has,  perchance,  come  over  to  the  help 
of  the  Lord  against  the  mighty." 

"No,  nothing  so  fine  and  grand  as  that," 
returned  Miles,  smiling  languidly.  "  I  would 
strike  a  hard  blow  to  defend  a  woman  when  I 
would  not  lift  my  finger  from  what  you  term 
principle,  or  even  to  serve  myself.  But  you  will 
let  me  rest  an  hour  with  you  here  at  the  Anchor, 

and  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  bite  of  some- 
5 


68  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours, 

thing  to  eat,  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  dog 
tired  and  half  famished." 

Lois  Gibbs,  during  the  assault,  had  stationed 
herself  in  a  window  and  uttered  a  succession 
of  screeches,  as  if  a  pin  were  being  driven  into 
her  side  at  regular  intervals.  She  was  now 
back  among  her  pots  and  pans,  and  old  Jacob 
had  crept  out  of  the  stable,  where  he  had  hidden 
himself,  with  his  hair  full  of  straw. 

"  I  thought  I  was  dead  as  a  nit,"  he  sniffled 
in  a  piteious  tone. 

"  Dead  man !"  said  Miles,  "  you  haven't  a 
scratch  about  you." 

"  The  breath  was  all  choked  out  of  me,  and 
I  sha'n't  get  my  wind  again  for  many  a  day." 

"  You  retained  the  use  of  your  legs  wonder 
fully  well,  and  your  old  back  should  smart  for 
running  away  and  leaving  your  mistress  to  face 
those  fiends  alone." 

"  It  was  my  head,"  returned  Jacob ;  "  I  was 
quite  dazed,  and  when  I  come  to  I  found  my 
self  in  the  barn  under  old  Dobbin's  heels." 

"  Well,  bestir  thee  now,"  said  Mercy  ;  "  I  want 
thee  to  fetch  me  in  that  man  by  the  road  side 
yonder  and  put  him  to  bed." 

Jacob    stared    at    her    with     open    mouth. 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  69 

"  What,  that  coot,  Tim  Sackett,  the  greatest 
sneak-thief  and  vagabones  in  all  the  country  ? 
Put  him  into  one  of  the  beds  at  the  Anchor  ? 
Why  he  deserted,  and  come  near  dangling  from 
the  end  of  a  rope  in  the  war.  He's  never  sober 
three  days  together,  and  many  a  time  I've  seen 
the  old  master  thrust  him  out  in  the  cold  when 
he  had  no  money  to  pay  his  score,  and  his  wife, 
too,  for  that  matter.  She  used  to  come,  crying 
and  complaining  that  the  children  starved  at 
home,  because  Tim  spent  all  his  wages  and  her 
own  here  at  the  Anchor." 

"  Then  am  I  more  bound  to  give  him  shelter," 
said  Mercy,  "  if  he  was  tempted  here,  and  led 
into  evil  habits  that  stole  away  his  manhood." 

"  I  didn't  think  of  it  in  that  there  light," 
returned  Jacob,  scratching  his  head.  "  I  can 
remember  when  Tim  Sackett  was  a  likely  young 
man,  with  as  fair  chances  as  any  body,  till  he 
took  to  carousing  round  the  tavern  here.  But 
he's  a  bad  egg  now,  not  decent  to  sight  or  smell, 
and  if  I  was  you  I'd  let  him  lie  in  the  stable." 

"Do  as  I  bid  thee,  and  bring  him  in,"  was 
Mercy's  reply. 

Miles  Corry  had  still  some  distance  to  ride 
that  night  before  he  slept.  As  he  was  mount- 


70  Stories  for  J  eisure  Hours. 

ing  by  the  light  of  a  candle  which  Mercy,  stand 
ing  on  the  porch,  held  and  screened  from  the 
wind  with  her  hand,  she  said  to  him  in  an  anx 
ious  tone. 

"  I  tremble,  Miles,  at  the  risk  thee  runs  from 
that  bad  man." 

Miles's  face  was  in  shadow.  Stooping  over 
the  saddle-bow,  he  took  Mercy's  hand  and 
pressed  it  tenderly. 

"  Never  fear  for  me.  I  have  given  the  scamp 
a  quietus  for  the  present,  and  before  he  gets 
lively  again  about  Satan's  business  I  mean  to 
bestir  myself  to  have  him  imprisoned  for  a  term 
of  years." 

Mercy  stopped  a  moment  to  listen  to  the 
clatter  of  Miles  Corry's  horse's  hoofs  down  the 
dark  road.  As  she  was  turning  in  again,  where 
the  fire-light  shone  through  the  bedroom  win 
dows,  she  caught  sight  of  a  figure  crouching  in 
the  deep  shade  of  the  porch,  and  partly  screened 
by  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree. 

"  Who  is  lurking  there  ? "  she  called,  startled 
by  the  remembrance  of  the  possibility  that 
some  of  Dunk's  men  might  come  back  to  fire 
the  house,  or  work  other  mischief.  She  was 
answered  by  the  .feeble  wail  of  a  sick  child,  and 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  71 

a  woman's  form  crept  nearer  the  little  dim  circle 
of  light  made  by  his  candle — a  crouching,  dead- 
white  looking  woman,  with  a  tattered  shawl 
about  her  shoulders  in  which  a  baby  was 
wrapped,  while  a  wild-eyed,  bare-footed  little 
boy  clung  to  her  skirts. 

"O,  marm,"  moaned  the  woman,  crouching 
still  lower,  "  I'm  not  hiding  round  here  to  do 
you  any  mischief.  I  was  forced  to  come  out 
with  these  little  ones,  leaving  the  two  oldest  at 
home  to  look  for  my  man,  Tim  Sackett.  May 
be  you've  seen  him  hereabouts.  He's  quite 
lost  when  in  drink,  and  might  wander  here  un 
beknown,  for  his  feet  would  take  the  way  to 
the  tavern  of  themselves.  This  little  one  in  my 
arms  is  bad  in  the  head,  and  the  boy  is  croupy. 
I  couldn't  leave  them  behind,  and  I  couldn't 
stay  at  home.  If  Tim  is  off  on  a  spree  I'm  like 
a  crazy  creeter  in  a  cage.  I've  been  druv  out 
to  look  for  him  in  the  snow  and  in  the  rain,  in 
the  heat  and  in  the  cold.  I've  been  afeard  I 
should  come  across  his  dead  face  starin'  up  at 
me  from  the  ditch,  and  I  couldn't  be  held  with 
an  iron  chain.  He  never  spoke  a  harsh  word 
when  he  wern't  in  liquor,  marm.  He  feels  so 
sorry  for  what  he's  done,  he  takes  to  drink  agin 


72  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

to  drown  the  thoughts  of  where  he's  brought 
me  and  the  children  down  to.  There's  the  old 
est  boy  and  girl  home  now  without  a  morsel  to 
eat,  or  a  bit  of  fire  or  candle-light,  and  they 
too  little  to  sense  much.  They  sob  themselves 
to  sleep  in  the  dark.  O  you  feel  as  if  your 
heart  was  cut  in  two  with  a  sharp  knife  when 
your  man  is  lost,  and  you  must  go  seek  him, 
leaving  the  children  to  cry  at  home."  f 

"Thee  has,  indeed,  told  a  piteous  story," 
said  Mercy,  wiping  a  little  trickling  tear  from 
her  cheek ;  "  I  am  glad  to  tell  thee  thy  husband 
is  here,  I  have  had  him  cared  for,  and  thee  need 
go  no  further  to-night.  Take  thy  children  to 
the  kitchen  and  dry  thee  by  the  fire,  and  get  a 
taste  of  hot  supper  and  what  thee  needs  for  the 
little  ones." 

"  Are  you  an  angel  ? "  asked  the  woman, 
looking  up  wonderingly  into  Mercy's  face  as 
the  light  of  the  candle  flickered  over  her  white 
cap  and  pure  cheek. 

"  Nay,"  said  Mercy,  "  a  poor,  weak,  erring 
mortal  like  thyself,  and  doubtless  far  less  than 
thee ;  for,  like  the  woman  of  Scripture,  thee 
has  loved  much." 

Tim  Sackett's  wife,  looking  more  cowed  and 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  73 

dead-white  than  before,  was  seated  before  the 
generous  blaze  of  the  kitchen  hearth  drying  her 
garments,  soaked  with  the  night  dew.  Mercy 
had  taken  the  rickety  baby  from  its  mother's 
arms,  and  the  little  spindling  boy,  with  his  bare, 
brown  feet,  and  great  hungry  eyes,  was  watch 
ing  and  smelling  the  processes  of  frying  and 
short-cake  baking  with  infinite  satisfaction. 

Lois  went  about  banging  the  kitchen  utensils, 
and  violently  opening  and  shutting  doors — her 
favorite  mode  of  showing  disapproval  of  the 
higher  powers. 

"  I  can't  and  wont  stand  it,"  she  exploded, 
raiding  out  on  the  shed  whither  Jacob  had  re 
tired  to  smoke  his  clay  pipe  in  peace.  "  It  was 
too  much  for  flesh  and  blood  to  bear  \i  hen  Tim 
Sackett  was  put  between  clean  sheets,  them  I 
bleached  in  June  grass  with  my  own  hands, 
and  now  the  rest  of  these  lousy,  vagrom  Sacketts 
is  brought  in  for  me  to  cook  for.  I'll  clear  the 
coop  agin'  morning  comes." 

"  No,  you  wont,"  returned  Jacob  calmly. 
"  The  new  mistress  is  a  quare  un',  that's  cer 
tain,  and  you  will  have  to  bile  over  like  the  tea- 
kittle  about  once  in  so  often  ;  but  you  aint  go 
ing  to  quit  this  place  on  that  account  any  more 


74  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

than  the  tea-kittle  is  going  to  quit  the  fire. 
The  place  is  too  easy,  and  the  pay  is  too  reg'lar 
and,  as  I've  often  justly  remarked,  there's  too 
many  requisites." 

Before  many  days  it  was  pretty  well  known, 
much  to  the  astonishment  of  the  neighbors, 
that  Mercy  Davits  had  taken  in  the  whole 
Sackett  family — had  not  only  fed  and  clothed 
the  wretched  wife  and  half-starved  children, 
but  had  actually  undertaken  to  give  Tim,  who 
was  very  contrite  and  penitent,  a  chance  to  re 
form.  The  rear  part  of  the  old  tavern  stand 
was  made  into  a  habitation  for  the  family. 
Mercy  had  inherited  along  with  the  house  a 
farm  of  some  extent  ;  she  proposed  to  furnish 
Tim  employment,  in  cutting  wood  and  tending 
cattle,  sufficient  to  keep  those  dependent  on  him 
and  save  him  from  temptation. 

The  scheme  seemed  so  wild  and  impractica 
ble  that  Miles  Corry,  who  was  spurring  about 
the  country  these  bright  autumn  days  on 
electioneering  business,  and  in  efforts  to  bring 
Dunk  Ferguson  to  justice,  called  to  expostulate. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  he,  striding  about  the  best 
room  and  switching  his  top  boots  with  his  rid 
ing  whip,  "  Tim  Sackett's  stomach  is  burnt  to 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  75 

a  cinder ;  he  will  rob  and  cheat  you,  no  doubt, 
and  then  return  to  wallow  in  the  mire." 

"  I  will  have  patience,"  returned  Mercy. 
"  Thee  knows  that  faith  can  move  mountains. 
But  it  moves  them,  I  take  it,  an  inch  at  a  time. 
I  will  be  content  with  small  results.  Would  it 
not  be  enough  to  save  one  child  from  a  life  of 
misery,  and  here  are  four  little  ones  gathered 
under  my  wing." 

"  A  woman  like  you,"  said  Miles,  glancing  at 
her  furtively,  "  must  waste  herself  in  some  di 
rection  or  other.  If  she  does  not  throw  herself 
away  on  a  worthless  man,  she  will  do  it  on 
beggars  and  lazy  good-for-naughts.  It  appears 
to  me  she  is  wiser  to  offer  the  sweet  sacrifice 
of  her  devotion  to  some  cleaner  and  more  re 
spectable  member  of  my  own  sex  than  Tim 
Sackett" 

A  slight  blush  rose  to  Mercy's  cheek  as  she 
said  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Thee  should  remember  I  strive  to  follow  the 
leadings  of  the  Spirit." 

Though  Miles  exerted  himself  in  the  matter, 
Dunk  Ferguson  was  not  brought  to  trial  before 
election  day.  Ruling  by  rum,  he  made  himself 
felt  and  feared  ;  and  at  that  time  the  machinery 


76  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

of  justice  was  slow  in  getting  into  operation. 
Although  Dunk  was  still  at  large  he  was  under 
a  cloud,  and  dared  not  present  himself  at  the 
polls,  held  three  miles  away  at  Poole's,  on  the 
Pike.  The  result  was  Miles  Corry  triumphed. 
There  was  no  actual  breaking  of  heads  on  the 
occasion,  but  much  rough  roystering  and  horse 
play,  and  a  deal  of  hard  drinking,  in  which  the 
successful  candidate  freely  participated. 

It  was  late  on  the  same  afternoon.  The  sun 
had  set,  and  a  still  glow  pulsed  up  the  sky, 
and  gleamed  like  an  inlet  to  Paradise  between 
the  spectral  tree  stems  of  the  little  wood  where 
Mercy  Davits  was  walking.  She  had  gone  on 
a  visit  to  a  sick  neighbor,  and,  belated,  was 
hurrying  home  the  nearest  way  across  the  fields. 
Her  light  step  and  scant  skirt  scarce  rustled  the 
fallen  leaves.  She  had  almost  reached  the  road, 
which  was  itself  solitary  and  deeply  shaded, 
when  the  sound  of  familiar  voices  struck  her  ear. 
It  was  easy  to  peer  through  one  of  many  open 
ings  in  the  bare  boughs  at  the  path  beneath. 
Miles  Corry  had  dismounted,  and  was  leading  his 
horse  with  the  bridle  thrown  over  one  arm, 
while  the  other  encircled  Leah  Wentworth's 
waist.  His  rich  dress  was  slightly  disordered. 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  77 

His  handsome  face  was  flushed  with  wine,  the 
breath  came  hot  through  his  lips,  and  his  eyes 
glittered  with  excitement.  Leah's  scarlet  hood 
had  slipped  back  from  her  bright  hair,  and  she 
was  gazing  up  into  his  face. 

"O  stay  with  us  to-night,  Miles !"  Mercy  heard 
her  say,  "  my  heart  misgives  me  at  the  thought 
of  your  long  ride  through  the  woods." 

"  What  a  timid  little  puss  you  are,"  returned 
Miles  lightly.  "  There  is  nothing  to  fear  from 
that  whipped  dog,  Dunk  Ferguson.  He  did  not 
even  dare  to  show  his  ugly  face  at  the  polls  to 
day.  It  was  a  glorious  victory,  and  I  must 
ride  home  to  carry  the  good  news  to  my  old 
bed-ridden  mother,  who  will  be  ready  to  die  of 
joy  now  that  her  lazy  son  has  turned  out  at 
last  good  for  something.  The  men  at  Poole's 
were  bent  on  my  staying  to  make  a  night  of  it, 
but  I  slipped  away  quietly,  and  left  them  to 
drink  my  share  for  me." 

"  And  is  it  true  what  you  just  now  said,  that 
you  do  indeed  love  me  ?  You  have  told  me  so 
many  times  before,  but  have  forgotten  the 
words  when  some  fairer  face  came  between 
us." 

"  Of  course  I  love  you,"  returned  Miles  ;  "and 


78  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours 

do  you  know  you  look  bewitching  in  this 
light,  Leah — lovely  enough  to  drive  any  man 
out  of  his  sober  senses."  He  clasped  her  waist 
more  closely,  and  pressed  hot,  impassioned 
kisses  on  her  lips. 

"  And  will  you  keep  your  promise,  and  make 
me  your  wife,"  asked  Leah  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  if  I  ever  marry  at  all,  until  I  am 
a  gray-beard.  How  can  I  now,  just  entering  on 
my  career  in  life,  pluck  out  my  brightest  feathers, 
and  become  a  tame  fowl  to  mate  even  with  such 
a  little  singing  bird  as  you  are  ? " 

"There,"  cried  Leah,  catching  at  a  straw, 
"you  have  promised  me,  and  we  are  betrothed." 

"  Well,  have  it  so,"  said  Miles,  laughing,  and 
he  kissed  her  again  ;  "  but  go  home  now  to  your 
father.  Don't  trust  any  man  too  far,  or  believe 
too  implicitly  in  his  promises,"  and  he  leaped 
on  his  horse  and  was  off  down  the  dusky  road 
like  a  whirlwind. 

The  stars  had  not  yet  began  to  shine,  and 
only  a  few  scattered  gleams  of  daylight*  re 
mained.  Something  touched  the  girl's  arm 
lightly,  and  she  turned  with  a  slight  scream. 

"  Thee  need  not  fear,  it's  me,  Mercy  DaviFs." 

"  And  so  you  have  been  watching  and  spying 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  79 

on  us,"  cried  Leah,  with  a  sudden  irrational 
burst  of  anger. 

"  Hush  ! "  responded  Mercy  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
chanced  upon  thee  and  thy  companion,  and 
unwittingly  played  the  eaves-dropper." 

"Then  you  heard  what  he  said,"  the  girl 
eagerly  exclaimed.  "  You  heard  his  vows  and 
promises.  You  must  have  seen  him  embrace 
and  kiss  me." 

"But  he  was  heated  with  drink,"  replied 
Mercy  sadly,  "  and  it  is  said  that  vows  made  in 
wine  are  writ  in  water." 

"  Perhaps  you  love  him  yourself,"  cried  Leah, 
taking  told  of  Mercy's  arm,  somewhat  rudely. 
"  I  never  more  than  half  trusted  your  soft  ways. 
But  he  is  mine ;  promise  me  you  will  not  be  so 
wicked  as  to  come  between  us." 

Mercy  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment  with 
her  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground.  Perhaps  her 
face  blanched  a  little,  it  was  difficult  to  tell  in 
the  deepening  dusk.  "  I  promise  thee,"  she 
whispered  at  last,  "  and  may  the  Searcher  of 
hearts  keep  mine  steadfast." 

In  that  long,  dark  prelude  to  a  November 
morning,  which  dawned  at  last  chill  and  gray, 
Mercy  was  awakened  by  a  knocking  upon  the 


8o  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours, 

outer  door,  violent  at  first,  then  interrupted,  and 
mingled  with  what  seemed  a  broken  moan.  She 
threw  on  a  few  garments  with  her  heart  in  a 
tremor  of  apprehension,  and  went  down  hastily 
to  undo  the  door.  As  it  opened,  a  person  sit 
ting  on  the  step  fell  back  against  her  knees.  It 
was  Leah  Wentworth,  her  face  wild,  white,  and 
scared,  and  drawn  with  agony. 

"  Father  in  heaven,  what  ails  thee  ? " 
"  Miles,"  groaned  the  girl,  "  is  murdered — he's 
dying.  The  assassin  met  him  there  in  the  dark 
wood,  and  as  he  was  riding  home,  so  happy  and 
gay,  full  of  hope,  with  my  kisses  on  his  lips,  think 
ing  of  me,  perhaps  ;  and  he  was  shot  three  times 
and  left  for  dead,  lying  on  the  damp  leaves  and 
moss,  with  his  life-blood  oozing  away.  Dunk 
Ferguson  did  it,  they  say,  and  he  has  escaped. 
The  riderless  horse  went  home  with  blood  on 
his  flank,  and  the  search  began.  I  could  not 
stay  there  in  that  house.  I  don't  know  where 
I  have  been  stumbling  about  in  the  dark.  I 
don't  know  why  I  came  here,  for  I  never  loved 
you,  and  sometimes  I've  almost  hated  you." 

The  words  came  between  gasps  and  sobs 
The  girl's  little  flimsy  affectations  were  all  torn 
away.  She  was  lying  at  Mercy's  feet  with  her 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  81 

long  damp  hair  about  her.  The  mistress  of  the 
Anchor  must  have  uttered  a  cry  that  woke  old 
Jacob  and  Lois.  But  she  quickly  gathered 
Leah  up  in  her  arms,  and  half  carried  her  into 
the  best  room,  and  sitting  down  held  her  with 
her  head  pressed  close  against  her  bosom.  The 
thick  hard  sobs,  each  one  coming  painfully,  as 
if  it  drew  a  certain  portion  of  her  life  with  it, 
shook  Leah's  whole  body.  What  was  passing 
in  Mercy's  breast  is  difficult  to  say. 

"  Hush,  child  !  "  she  whispered  hoarsely, 
"  God's  will  be  done.  Thee  must  not  rebel." 

"  God  has  no  right  to  take  him  away  from 
me,"  Leah  cried  passionately.  "  He  is  cruel, 
cruel,  and  relentless,  and  not  a  God  of  love. 
You,  Mercy  Davits,  have  never  loved,  or  you 
would  not  speak  such  words  to  me ;  they  are 
hard  and  cold  as  icicles." 

The  poor  girl's  words  died  away  in  disjointed 
sentences  and  broken  moans.  Mercy  felt  of 
her  head.  It  was  burning  like  fire,  while  her 
hands  were  ice.  The  lethargy  of  brain  fever 
was  approaching.  Just  as  dawn  broke  over  the 
frosty  fields,  with  the  help  of  Lois  she  carried 
Leah  into  her  own  room,  undressed,  and  put 
her  to  bed.  Old  Jacob  had  been  dispatched  to 


82  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

gather  tidings  of  Miles  Corry's  fate,  and  send 
over  to  the  Anchor  Leah's  eldest  sister,  a  spin 
ster,  who  kept  house  for  the  old  Squire.  She 
came  by  sunrise,  and  then  began  a  long  vigil 
beside  the  sick  girl's  bed. 

Leah  was  in  the  grasp  of  a  dull  stupor,  with 
a  dark  and  sinister  flush  on  her  face.  She 
moaned,  and  tossed  her  arms  out  of  the  clothes, 
and  the  breath  came  painfully  through  her  baked 
lips.  Mercy  had  not  taken  off  her  gown,  or  laid 
down,  and  it  was  the  afternoon  of  the  second 
day.  There  were  ashen  rings  about  her  weary 
eyes,  and  her  face  was  so  colorless  it  seemed 
as  though  a  tinge  of  red  could  never  visit  it 
again. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  Leah 
opened  her  eyes  with  a  sane  look  in  them,  and 
Mercy  bent  over  and  whispered,  "  Miles  will 
live.  The  doctors  are  sure  of  it.  Comfort  thy 
self  with  the  thought." 

And  Miles  did  live,  though  his  recovery  was 
so  slow  as  to  be  almost  hopeless.  Dunk  Fer 
guson  had  been  caught,  tried,  and  sentenced  to 
imprisonment  for  life  before  Miles  could  leave  his 
bed.  The  winter  had  come  on,  stern  and  piti 
less,  with  whirling  storms  and  vast  snow-drifts. 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  83 

Scarcity  of  money  and  a  short  harvest  the 
previous  summer  were  causing  wide-spread  dis 
tress.  Rye  and  Indian  bread  was  eaten,  even 
on  the  Squire's  table.  The  white  loaf  had  quite 
gone  out  of  fashion.  Mercy  had  kept  Tim 
Sackett,  and  taken  in  three  other  families,  all 
of  them  with  intemperate  husbands  and  fathers, 
destitute,  and  out  of  work.  The  finger  of  the 
Lord  seemed  plain  to  her  now,  pointing  out  the 
road  she  ought  to  travel. 

Mercy  had  used  every  available  room  which 
she  could  spare  in  the  old  tavern  stand  for  her 
strange  community.  The  great  ball-room  was 
partitioned  off  into  living  apartments.  There 
were  more  than  a  dozen  children  in  all.  The 
fuel  her  own  woods  supplied.  By  dint  of  utmost 
economy,  and  good  management,  she  was  able 
to  furnish  her  little  colony  with  food.  The 
other  women  were  even  more  discouraging  than 
Tim  Sackett's  flabby,  broken-spirited  wife. 
They  were  slatternly  and  unneat,  with  the 
bad  habits  which  poverty,  misery,  and  the  cus 
tom  of  living  from  hand  to  mouth  had  ground 
into  them.  Mercy  undertook  to  teach  them 
how  to  keep  their  rooms,  to  cook,  to  sew,  to 
care  for  and  instruct  their  children.  Now  and 


84  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

again,  one  or  other  of  the  men  went  on  a 
"  spree,"  but  not  so  often,  perhaps,  as  might 
have  been  expected.  There  were  trials  and 
drawbacks  all  along  the  path  ;  but  still  Mercy, 
with  her  calm,  clear  eyes,  could  look  up,  and 
bless  God  for  his  mercies.  The  power  of  rum 
was  gradually  dying  out  of  that  neighborhood. 

One  day  in  early  spring,  when  the  fields  were 
bare,  the  sky  blue,  and  roads  heavy  with  mire, 
Miles  Corry  reined  his  horse  in  by  the  tavern 
porch,  and  slowly  dismounted.  He  was  pale, 
shrunken  within  his  clothes,  bent  in  the  shoul 
ders,  and  very  tremulous  and  weak.  He  stopped 
awhile  outside  in  a  long  coughing  fit.  It  was 
after  Mercy  had  helped  him  in,  and  removing 
his  wraps,  had  seated  him  in  a  great  chair  by 
the  fire,  that  he  attempted  to  speak. 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  I  came  here  to-day, 
Mercy  ? "  he  asked,  looking  at  his  bloodless 
hand. 

"  To  give  me  the  joyful  assurance  that  thee 
still  lives  in  the  flesh,"  she  answered,  with  a 
tender  suffusion  of  the  eyes. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Miles  impatiently.  "  I  am 
not  handsome  enough  to  wish  to  show  myself. 
I  came  expressly  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  It 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  85 

is  what  I  have  been  thinking  of  all  these  terri 
ble  months,  when  the  pain  would  let  me  think 
at  all." 

Mercy  was  perhaps  violently  startled,  but  she 
did  not  show  it,  save  by  a  slight  tremor  in  the 
hands  and  a  delicate  blush  which  overspread 
her  face. 

"  I  cannot  marry  thee,  Miles  Corry,"  she  began 
in  her  usual  plain,  pointed  manner  of  speech. 
"  I  am  no  yoke-mate  for  thee ;  besides,  the 
Friends  meeting  forbids  its  members  joining 
themselves  unto  world's  people.  This  is  only 
a  sick  fancy  which  will  pass  away  when  thy 
vigor  returns." 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  not,"  replied  Miles,  almost 
angrily,  the  hectic  of  weakness  coming  into  his 
face.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  much  better 
fellow  than  I  was  before  this  happened.  My 
faults  have  not  been  all  burned  out  of  me.  I 
am  not  religious,  and  I  am  selfish,  perhaps,  in 
asking  you  to  take  up  with  a  poor  broken  wreck. 
But  my  youth  is  over,  Mercy.  It  died  that  day 
my  enemy  met  me  in  the  wood,  when  I  was  so 
lusty,  so  full  of  life,  so  confident  of  myself.  I 
am  only  feeling  out  blindly  now  for  a  support 
and  shelter,  for  something  to  believe  in,  to 


86  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

cling  to,  to  rest  upon,  and  I  reach  my  arms 
toward  you." 

"  There  is  one  you  have  kissed  and  promised. 
I  saw  you  that  day  when  you  did  not  see  me," 
said  Mercy  in  a  low  voice. 

"O,  yes,  Leah  Wentworth,"  he  answered 
carelessly.  "  All  that  belongs  to  the  dead  past. 
It  is  over  and  done  with.  I  have  trifled  with 
many  women  in  my  time  ;  I  never  thought  there 
was  much  harm  in  it.  You  were  the  first  one 
I  was  forced  to  respect  thoroughly,  and  now  I 
have  learned  to  reverence  you.  You  will  save 
me  from  myself.  You  are  my  only  hope,  my 
only  salvation,"  and  he  bent  toward  her  with 
his  wan,  pleading  face,  and  outstretched  hands. 

"  Nay,"  said  Mercy,  growing  pale,  "  thee  can 
not  put  behind  thee  the  consequences  of  the 
past,  thee  cannot  get  away  from  them.  The  sin 
of  breaking  a  young  heart  and  crushing  a  life 
must  not  rest  on  thy  conscience." 

"  I  know  Leah  loves  me,"  returned  Miles  im 
patiently,  "but  she  always  makes  her  love 
plain.  She  wore  her  heart  on  her  sleeve,  and 
that  day  coaxed  a  promise  from  me  when  I 
hardly  knew  what  I  was  saying." 

"  But  thee  had   promised   before,   thee   had 


Mercy  Davits  at  the  Anchor.  87 

promised  often," — said  Mercy  relentlessly,  "and 
now  the  girl  will  die  unless  she  gets  comfort 
and  hope  from  thee.  She  has  long  been  sick, 
and  is  greatly  changed,  chastened,  and  softened  ; 
a  wiser  mind  has  come.  She  is  only  the  same 
same  in  loving  thee  still  too  fondly." 

"  Poor  Leah  !  is  it  indeed  so  ? "  returned 
Miles.  "  The  pleasures  I  once  thought  so  fine, 
come  now  and  scowl  at  me  with  the  faces  of 
ugly  old  sins.  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  Leah, 
but  you  must  take  back  those  hard  words. 
You  said  you  would  never  marry  me." 

A  gleam  of  the  old  fire  returned,  the  deter 
mination  to  have  his  way  and  ride  over  all  opposi 
tion.  He  sprang  up,  seized  Mercy's  hands,  held 
them  hard,  and  probed  her  eyes  with  his  own. 

"  Tell  me  if  indeed  you  do  not  love  me,  O  tell 
me  the  truth  ?  " 

Mercy,  by  a  great  effort,  seemed  to  force  all 
the  blood  in  her  body  back  upon  her  heart. 

"  No,  not  as  Leah  loves  thee.  I  could  not  give 
my  soul  to  pleasure  thee." 

Miles  dropped  her  hands  and  walked  away 
coldly  toward  the  window,  and  moodily  rubbed 
his  chin  as  he  looked  out  at  the  blue  sky  cum 
bered  with  masses  of  white  clouds.  Mercy  came 


88  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

softly  behind  him  with  his  hat  and  furred  great 
coat. 

"It  is  time  for  thee  to  go  to  Leah,"  she 
began.  "  The  poor  child  must  have  seen  thee 
ride  past,  and  is  doubtless  waiting  and  watching 
at  the  window,  heart  sick  with  hope  deferred." 

"  You  talk  as  if  I  were  mortgaged,  and  about 
to  be  sold,"  returned  Miles  in  a  savage  tone. 

"  Nay,"  she  faltered,  "  act  well  thy  part,  do 
thy  duty,  learn  obedience  " — and  then  her  voice 
died. 

"  You  are  cruel,  cruel ;  but  I  will  obey  you," 
he  cried ;  and  he  turned  and  clasped  her  in  his 
arms  and  kissed  her.  It  was  the  first  and  last 
kiss. 

Long  after  he  was  gone  Mercy  moaned  in  her 
pain.  She  alone  knew  how  great  had  been  the 
temptation.  She  alone  knew  that  afterward 
angels  came  and  ministered  unto  her. 


Aunt  Thorium's  Blanket  Shawl.         89 


AUNT  THORBURN'S  BLANKET  SHAWL. 


go  yet,  Henry;  I  must  have  a 
check  this  morning." 

Mr.  Preston  had  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob,  prepared  to  quit  his  handsome  up 
town  residence  for  his  down-town  place  of 
business. 

"  A  check,  Clara  ?  Didn't  I  give  you  one  on 
Brewster's  for  three  hundred  dollars  less  than 
a  fortnight  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  did  ;  but  I  was  obliged  to 
use  most  of  it  to  pay  back  debts.  Madame 
Pulsifer  is  very  pressing,  and  says  she  must 
have  the  money  for  my  moire  and  poplin  suit 
this  week." 

"  Confound  the  old  turk !  You  have  paid 
her  thousands  of  dollars.  She  isn't  decent  in 
her  charges  ;  you  know  she  isn't.  You  ought 
not  to  put  up  with  such  swindling.  It's  enough 
to  ruin  a  millionaire." 


90  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"  I  know,  Henry,  her  bills  are  enormous  ;  but 
nobody  gives  me  such  splendid  fits  as  she 
does." 

"  I'd  like  to  give  her  fits,  the  old  leach  ! " 
muttered  Mr.  Preston  petulantly  as  he  opened 
the  door  and  stepped  into  the  vestibule.  "  I 
can't  attend  to  it  this  morning,  Clara ;  you 
must  wait  until  I  come  up  to-night."  He 
slammed  the  door  in  a  way  to  make  the  plate 
glass  shiver  unpleasantly  and  was  gone. 

"  O  dear  !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Preston,  knitting  her 
pretty  brows.  "  I  do  wish  Henry  would  be  rea 
sonable.  ,  I  am  sure  no  one  in  my  position  can 
do  with  less  than  I  have,  although  he  some 
times  accuses  me  of  extravagance.  He  would  be 
the  very  first  one  to  complain  if  I  did  not  dress 
— and  quite  as  well,  too,  as  anybody  in  our  set." 

The  elegant  little  lady  turned  her  head  to 
note  the  hang  of  her  white  morning  dress,  where 
the  rich  festoons  of  her  train  lay  coiled  upon 
the  velvet  carpet.  Then  she  glided  into  the 
drawing-room — frescoed  and  garlanded,  uphol 
stered  and  adorned  with  pictures — and  glanced 
up  at  the  mirror,  that  looked  like  a  crystal  cave 
in  a  fringe-work  of  ferns  and  dainty  woodland 
things,  carved  from  black  walnut. 


Aunt  Thorburn's  Blanket  Shawl.         91 

The  pretty  face  which  the  polished  surface 
reflected  still  had  a  cloud  upon  it  that  hinted 
at  the  absence  of  perfect  bliss  even  in  such  a 
little  paradise  as  that  drawing-room  was.  How 
ever,  Mrs.  Preston  set  straight  her  dainty  little 
point-lace  cap,  and  smoothed  out  her  rose- 
colored  ribbons,  and  twisted  the  bracelet  on  her 
delicate  wrist,  until  the  consciousness  that  she 
was  very  pretty  and  stylish,  and  that  her  morn 
ing  costume  became  her  to  a  charm,  dissolved 
the  cloud  to  a  very  thin  mist  indeed. 

"  Robert,"  said  Mrs.  Preston,  turning  toward 
the  man  waiter,  who  stood  in  the  dining-room, 
near  the  blaze  of  a  soft-coal  fire,  that  flickered 
upon  the  glass  and  silver  of  the  yet  uncleared 
breakfast  table  in  dozens  of  crimson  gleams. 

Robert,  a  very  clerical-looking  character,  in 
a  white  choker,  turned  like  a  grenadier  and 
bowed. 

"Robert,  if  Madame  Pulsifer's  young  man 
calls  this  morning  say  I  am  out." 

Robert  bowed  again. 

"And,  Robert,  order  the  carriage  for  three 
this  afternoon." 

Again  that  functionary  inclined  his  per 
son. 


92  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours, 

"And  tell  Fanny  not  to  bring  the  children 
down  until  lunch-time." 

A  third  time  the  process  was  repeated 
silently. 

Mrs.  Preston  sank  back  in  a  stuffed  easy- 
chair — a  veritable  Sleepy  Hollow  of  padding 
and  brocatelle — and  put  out  her  daintily-slip 
pered  feet  toward  the  fender.  She  sighed  once 
or  twice — without  noticing  Robert,  who  was 
stealthily  removing  the  cloth — in  a  manner  that 
showed  something  more  than  the  mere  butterfly 
burden  of  a  fashionable  woman's  existence  was 
weighing  upon  her  thoughts  ;  nevertheless,  she 
shifted  the  cluster  diamond  ring  on  her  slender 
forefinger,  and  watched  to  see  it  throw  off 
sparkles  of  iridescent  color  in  the  blaze  of  the 
firelight. 

Perhaps,  if  the  little  woman's  thoughts  had 
found  utterance,  they  would  have  run  some 
what  "in  this  wise:  "  O  dear,  how  I  wish  I  had 
an  independent  fortune  of  my  own !  It  is  hor 
rid  to  be  always  short  for  money !  How  I  hate 
to  ask  Henry  for  what  is  actually  necessary  to 
meet  expenses.  And,  then,  it  is  so  humiliating 
to  have  him  look  cross,  and  talk  as  he  did  this 
morning.  I  degrade  myself  in  the  eyes  of  trades- 


Aunt  Thorburn  's  Blanket  ShawL         93 

people  when  I  put  them  off  with  trumped-up 
excuses,  and  feel  as  though  my  own  servants 
look  down  upon  me.  But  what  can  I  do  ? 
Henry  would  scold  worse  than  ever  if  I  did  not 
dress  to  his  taste  ;  but  I  sometimes  think  I 
would  gladly  sell  my  diamonds,  and  go  about 
clad  in  fustian,  for  the  sake  of  being  independent 
in  money  matters." 

She  petted  and  caressed  the  beautiful  cluster 
on  her  finger  with  a  heroic,  high-toned  feeling, 
as  if  she  were  entitled  to  an  immense  amount 
of  credit  for  merely  thinking  of  such  a  sacrifice. 

Just  then  the  door-bell  ting-a-linged,  as  door 
bells  are  apt  to  ting-a-ling  in  aristocratic  man 
sions. 

"  Stop,  Robert,"  she  said  as  that  functionary 
was  about  to  obey  the  summons.  "  Dear,  dear ! " 
she  went  on  to  herself ;  "  there  is  Mrs.  Brace, 
with  those  tickets  for  the  charity  concert,  and 
I  have  scarcely  a  dollar  in  my  purse.  Robert, 
if  Mrs.  Brace  has  called  say  that  I  am  out." 

Robert  bowed,  and  a  blush  of  .shame  tinged 
the  fair  cheek  of  Mrs.  Preston.  The  lackey 
moved  off  to  the  door  with  great  deliberation, 
as  he  always  did  when  he  had,  so  to  speak,  the 
credit  of  his  master  or  mistress  buttoned  up  in 


94  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

his  pocket.  It  took  from  the  menial  and  added 
to  the  dignity  of  the  man  when  he  was  con 
scious,  as  he  often  was,  of  being  a  pillar  for  the 
support  of  the  respectability  of  the  family.  His 
air  was  more  clerical  than  usual  when  he  opened 
the  street-door,  prepared  to  encounter  Mrs. 
Brace,  who  was  well  known  to  him. 

Instead  of  that  lady  there  stood  upon  the 
highest  of  the  brown-stone  steps  a  burly  ex 
pressman,  with  a  shabby  little  trunk  upon  his 
shoulder,  tied  together  with  a  cord. 

"This  is  for  here,  my  cove,"  said  the  man, 
bluntly;  "and  there's  forty  cents  due." 

This  low  familiarity  of  address  was  offensive 
to  Robert's  nostrils.  "  You've  made  a  mistake," 
said  he,  loftily.  "There's  no  such  trunk  ex 
pected  at  this  house." 

"  I  haint  made  no  mistake,  nuther,  now,  you 
popinjay.  I  guess  I've  got  the  company's  credit 
to  take  care  of;  and  here's  the  number  in  my 

check  book — 92  West •  street,  as  plain  as 

black  and  white  can  make  it." 

Then  it  goes  to  the  servants'  door,"  replied 
Robert,  trying  hard  to  keep  up  a  show  of  dig 
nity,  as  he  saw  the  expressman  was  an  ugly 
customer  when  roused,  and  had  a  formidable 


Aunt  Thorburn  's  Blanket  Shawl.         95 

pair  of  fists.  "  It  may  possibly  belong  to  the 
new  cook." 

"  I  don't  care  a  flip  who  it  belongs  to.  If  it 
goes  down  to  the  servants'  door  it  goes  down 
on  a  pair  of  shoulders  about  the  size  of  your'n. 
Here  I  stays  until  I  gets  my  pay." 

He  pushed  into  the  vestibule,  and  set  the 
trunk  down  on  the  marble  tiling  with  a  bang. 

Mrs.  Preston  had  heard  loud  voices  in  the 
hall,  and  felt  a  rush  of  cold  air  from  the 
open  door  with  certain  inward  quakings.  She 
thought  she  recognized  the  tones  of  Madame 
Pulsifer's  young  man,  who  was  very  obstinate, 
as  she  well  knew  from  sad  experience.  To-day 
Robert  must  fight  her  battle  for  her.  She  got 
up  and  moved  round  the  elegant  drawing-room 
guiltily,  waiting  to  hear  the  front  door  close  and 
the  disagreeable  sounds  die  away.  Her  rest 
lessness  chanced  to  lead  her  to  the  window  ; 
and,  as  she  glanced  through  the  heavy  draperies 
of  lace  and  satin,  her  eye  happened  to  light 
upon  the  express  wagon  standing  there  in  front 
of  the  house  loaded  with  trunks.  Immediately 
came  the  thought  that  she  had  made  a  mistake, 
and  with  it  an  immense  sense  of  relief.  She 
stepped  at  once  into  the  hall. 


96  Stot  ies  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"  What  is  all  this  noise  about,  Robert  ? " 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  here's  a  fellow  determined 
to  leave  a  trunk  that  don't  belong  to  the 
house." 

"  How,  pray,  do  you  know  it  don't  belong  to 
the  house  ? " 

Robert  had  only  judged  from  the  lights  he 
possessed.  "  I've  never  seen  the  likes  of  it 
coming  to  the  house  before." 

"  Here's  the  number,  mum,  on  the  company's 
check,  and  I'll  be  blowed  if  I'll  budge  an  inch 
till  I  gets  my  pay." 

"  I  dare  say  it's  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Preston 
pleasantly,  with  an  inward  conviction  that  soft 
words  do  sometimes  butter  parsnips.  "  I  am 
not  looking  for  any  one  from  a  distance,  but  an 
unexpected  visitor  might  arrive.  Just  do  me 
the  favor  to  look  at  the  name  on  the  trunk,  if 
there  is  one,  and  I  think  I  can  tell  if  it  is  to 
come  to  this  house." 

The  man,  who  had  coolly  sat  down  on  the 
offending  trunk,  got  on  his  pegs  and  jerked  up 
the  shabby  little  affair  on  end,  and  looked  at 
the  name,  written  in  a  cramped,  old-fashioned 
hand  on  a  business  card  : 

"  Mrs.  Hannah  Thorburn,  Plastow." 


Aunt  Thorium's  Blanket  Shawl.          97 

"  Mrs.  Thorburn,  of  course  ;  my  husband's 
great  aunt.  Robert,  you  should  not  be  so  forth- 
putting.  It  would  have  been  more  becoming  in 
you  to  have  made  inquiries." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  thought  I  had  warrant." 

*'  You  had  no  warrant  to  take  any  such  mat 
ter  upon  yourself." 

Mrs.  Preston  satisfied  the  expressman,  and 
ordered  Robert,  who  was  huffy,  to  carry  the 
shabby  little  black  trunk,  much  frayed  at  the 
corners,  up  to  the  third-story  back  room. 

As  Robert  bent  his  aristocratic  shoulders  to 
the  obnoxious  burden,  he  determined  to  give 
warning  before  the  end  of  the  month.  The 
Prestons  did  not  come  up  to  his  idea  of  a  gen 
teel  family. 

The  elegant  little  mistress  herself,  who  was 
not  quite  as  fastidious  as  Robert,  felt  half 
ashamed  at  not  having  assigned  Aunt  Thor 
burn  to  the  best  guest-chamber.  She  knew  her 
husband  honored  and  loved  this  aunt ;  she  had 
often  heard  him  speak  of  her  goodness  to  him 
when  he  was  a  poor  boy  up  in  Plastow.  Still, 
she  reflected  that  Aunt  Thorburn  was  not  used 
to  any  thing  half  so  fine  as  the  third-story  back 
room  ;  and,  perhaps,  she  would  be  more  at  her 


98  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

ease  there  than  in  the  grander  apartment  down 
stairs. 

While  these  thoughts  were  running  through 
her  head  the  relative  from  Plastow  was  ushered 
in.  She  was  a  tall,  almost  gaunt,  woman,  with 
rather  an  unyielding  countenance,  bordered  by 
gray  hair  quite  guiltless  of  dye.  Her  bonnet 
was  at  least  five  seasons  behind  the  fashion, 
and  she  wore  over  her  black  alpaca  dress  a 
black-and-white  shawl  of  the  species  known  as 
Bay  State. 

Mrs.  Preston's  greeting  was  very  gracious  in 
deed.  She  had  a  little  innocent  design  upon 
Aunt  Thorburn,  and  meant  to  dazzle  her  a 
good  deal,  and  perhaps  to  awe  her  the  least  bit 
in  the  world.  But  the  country  aunt  was  a  quiet, 
unmoved  sort  of  body ;  and,  whatever  she  may 
have  felt  underneath,  she  did  not  appear  to  be 
overcome  by  the  magnificence  of  her  nephew's 
residence  or  the  stylishness  of  his  little  wife. 
But  there  are  one  or  two  facts  that  prove  to  my 
mind  that  Aunt  Thorburn  was  really  cowed  ; 
she  called  Robert  sir ;  and  when  she  got  to  her 
own  room,  and  was  left  to  adjust  herself  as  best 
she  could  to  its  new-fangled  knickknackeries, 
she  spread  her  handkerchief  over  the  seat  of 


Atmt  T/wrburns  Blanket  Shawl.         99 

the  crimson  satin  sofa  before  she  ventured  to 
sit  down  and  rest. 

The  lunch-bell  tingled,  and  she  made  her 
way  down  stairs  again,  feeling  very  much  like 
a  cat  in  a  strange  garret,  after  opening  several 
wrong  doors  and  walking  surreptitiously  into 
two  or  three  pantries.  Mrs.  Preston  was  in  the 
parlor  with  the  children — three  little  girls,  the 
youngest  a  mere  toddler — with  faces  clustering 
like  dewy  rose-buds  against  mamma's  skirts, 
their  white  frocks  set  off  by  bright  sashes  and 
shoulder-knots.  Aunt  Thorburn's  visage  looked 
much  less  unyielding  than  it  had  done  as  she 
stooped  down  to  kiss  them,  and  lay  her  large, 
bony  hand  on  their  tender  little  heads.  She 
really  was  gaunter  and  plainer  than  she  had  ap 
peared  in  her  wraps.  Her  rather  skimpy  black 
dress  fell  round  her  in'  stiff  lines.  There  was 
no  hint  of  a  waterfall  in  the  arrangement  of  her 
hair.  Scant  and  gray  as  it  was,  it  was  wadded 
in  a  small  knot  under  her  half-cap  of  cheap  lace, 
trimmed  with  lappets  of  rusty  black  velvet. 
Her  linen  collar  was  fastened  with  an  antiquated 
mourning  pin,  and  her  cuffs,  of  the  same  ma 
terial,  did  not  seem  to  be  on  the  best  of  terms 

with  her  large  red  wrists. 

7 


TOO  Stories  for  Leisiire  Hours. 

Miss  Lu  Edgecombe,  Mrs.  Preston's  sister, 
dropped  in  to  lunch.  She  was  a  lively  girl, 
arrayed  in  a  medley  of  garnet  and  black  silk, 
that  broke  out  all  over  her  in  puffs  and  coils 
and  tags  and  fringes.  Her  bonnet  was  com 
posed  of  five  green  leaves,  with  nothing  visible 
to  hold  it  on  to  a  sea  of  blonde  hair,  that  raged 
down  her  back  in  waves  and  over  her  forehead 
in  ripples.  She  wore  lavender  gloves,  three 
buttons,  and  carried  a  dainty  white  parasol 
covered  with  point. 

Aunt  Thorburn  had  probably  heard  of  this 
extraordinary  species  of  young  creature ;  but, 
having  never  come  across  a  good  specimen  be 
fore,  she  was  excusable  for  staring  a  little 
through  her  specs. 

"Who  under  the  sun  have  you  got  now, 
Clara  ? "  whispered  Lu,  dragging  her  sister  into 
the  hall. 

"  Henry's  Aunt  Thorburn.  You  must  have 
heard  of  her.  He  is  always  boasting  about  her 
mince-pies  and  cider-apple  sauce." 

"That's  just  like  Frank."  (Frank  was  at 
present  Lu's  slave — soon  to  become  her  lord.) 
"  You  know  he  was  a  country  boy,  too.  Noth 
ing  ever  tastes  to  him  as  the  dishes  his  mother 


Aunt  Thorburn  's  Blanket  Sliawl.       101 

used  to  cook.  I  expect  to  have  the  old  lady 
held  up  daily  as  a  warning  and  admonition  after 
I  get  to  housekeeping. 

"  Henry  thinks  the  world  of  this  old  aunt." 

"  She  isn't  a  fascinator,  is  she,  Clara  ?  " 

"  No  ;  of  course  not.  Every  body  can't  be 
fascinators." 

"But  she  might  get  herself  up  to  look  a 
little  less  as  if  she  had  just  stepped  out  of  the 
ark." 

"  That's  a  fact.  She  must  have  means  ;  for 
I  remember  Henry  said  her  husband,  the 
Deacon,  left  her  a  farm  and  some  money  in  the 
bank." 

"  I'm  rather  sorry  she  has  turned  up  just 
now.  There's  Beth's  wedding  coming  off  next 
week,  and  I  thought  of  bringing  the  Greshams 
over  to-night,  to  pass  a  social  evening." 

"  You  had  better  not.  Henry  will  want  to 
talk  over  old  times  with  his  aunt.  We  must  be 
polite  to  her  whatever  happens." 

"You  will  have  to  do  New  York  for  her 
benefit,  I  suppose.  Imagine  yourself  mounting 
up  to  the  top  of  Trinity  steeple,  and  pointing 
out  the  beauties  of  the  Battery  and  the  City 
Hall." 


IO2  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"Barnum's  is  burnt  up,  at  any  rate,"  said 
Mrs.  Preston,  laughingly.  "  That  is  so  much 
in  my  favor." 

"  Well,  then,"  after  a  little  pause,  "  I  suppose 
I  can't  have  the  carriage  to-morrow  to  pay  calls 
with." 

"  No,  I  am  afraid  not." 

Miss  Lu  was  just  taking  her  leave,  when 
Aunt  Thorburn  entered  with  the  little  girls. 
She  had  coaxed  them  to  get  acquainted  by 
some  freemasonry  of  her  own,  and  now  they 
were  all  jabbering  at  once.  Lu  had  her  hand 
on  the  knob  when  the  bell  rang.  Mrs.  Preston, 
who  was  still  in  bondage  to  the  dread  of  Madame 
Pulsifer's  young  man,  had  no  time  to  adopt  a 
line  of  policy  before  the  door  opened,  and  ex 
posed  to  view  a  boy — a  tall,  weak-looking  lad — 
dressed  in  poor  clothes  much  too  small  for  him, 
with  hollow,  bloodless  cheeks,  that  certainly 
gave  no  sign  of  gormandizing. 

"  O,  it's  Johnny  Spencer.  Come  in,  Johnny. 
How  is  your  mother  to-day  ? " 

Johnny  came  in  and  pulled  off  his  cap. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  I'm  sorry  to  say  she's 
poorly  again.  Last  week  she  had  one  of  her 
bad  turns.  The  doctor  said  she  took  cold  hold- 


Aunt  T/wrburn's  Blanket  Shawl.       103 

ing  her  arms  out  of  bed  ;  but  you  see,  ma'am, 
she  had  these  yokes  to  finish,  and  she  could  not 
afford  to  lie  idle." 

"I  am  sorry  she  hurried  on  my  account," 
said  Mrs.  Preston  kindly,  taking  the  little 
newspaper  parcel  from  the  lad's  hand.  "  There 
are  two  more  up  stairs  she  shall  have  ;  but  tell 
her  to  take  her  own  time,  and  not  to  worry 
over  them  a  bit." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  wish  she  could  take  her 
time.  I'm  afraid  it  will  kill  her  to  keep  on  so." 

"  And  why  can't  she,  Johnny  ? " 

"  O,  ma'am,  there's  bread  and  medicine  and 
coal  to  buy,  and  the  rent  coming  due  regular 
every  month,  and  I  not  big  enough  to  help  her 
much." 

"  O,  yes,  of  course ;  I  know  all  that.  You 
are  a  good  boy  to  your  mother,  if  there  ever 
was  one.  Now  go  down  stairs,  and  I  will  tell 
the  cook  to  put  you  up  some  tea  and  sugar." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  ma'am."  The  lad  hesi 
tated  and  twisted  his  cap,  and  a  tinge  of  color 
came  into  his  hollow  cheek.  "  But,  if  you 
please,  ma'am,  mother  said  she  would  like  to 
get  her  pay." 

"  Wont    to-morrow    morning    do    as    well, 


IO4  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Johnny  ?  I  really  haven't  the  sum  about  me. 
It  don't  often  happen  so ;  but  Mr.  Preston 
could  not  give  me  any  money  this  morning.  He 
said  he  would  bring  it  up  to-night." 

Johnny  twisted  his  cap  more  persistently  than 
ever,  and  the  color  rose  in  the  hollow  of  his 
cheek ;  but  he  stood  his  ground.  "  I'm  afraid 
it  wouldn't  do,  ma'am.  You  see  the  money  was 
borrowed,  and  we  promised  to  have  it  ready 
this  evening." 

"  Dear,  dear !  I  am  very  sorry.  Lu,"  (to  her 
sister,  who  had  turned  back  to  examine  the 
yokes,)  "  couldn't  you  lend  me  five  dollars  ? " 

"  No  ;  really,  Clara,  I  am  a  little  short  myself 
to-day.  But  you  don't  pretend  to  say  that  you 
got  this  work  done  for  five  dollars  a  pair  ?  I 
never  knew  any  thing  so  cheap  in  my  life." 

Mrs.  Preston  did  not  heed  her  sister's  re 
mark.  She  was  casting  about  in  her  thoughts 
to  see  what  could  be  done  for  Johnny. 

"  I  can  let  you  have  five  dollars  as  well  as 
not,"  said  Aunt  Thorburn,  coming  in  like  a 
good  Providence  at  the  right  moment. 

"  O,  could  you  ?  It  would  oblige  me  im 
mensely." 

Aunt    Thorburn   pulled    her  long,  old-fash- 


Aunt  Thorburn' s  Blanket  Shawl.       105 

ioned    bead    purse   from    the    depths    of    her 
pocket 

"  What  did  you  say  ailed  your  ma,  bub  ? " 
she  asked  Johnny  as  she  was  extricating  the 
bills. 

"  She  has  retching,  ma'am,  and  a  holler  pain 
in  her  side,  and  an  all-goneness,  and  hot  flashes 
like." 

"  I  know  what  that  hollow  pain  is  ;  I've  had  it 
myself  often.  You  tell  her  to  soak  her  feet  be 
fore  she  goes  to  bed,  and  lay  on  a  bag  of  warm 
hops." 

Johnny  said  he  would  be  sure  and  remember. 

"  I'm  coming  to  see  your  ma,"  whispered  Aunt 
Thorburn  as  she  slipped  an  extra  fifty  cents  into 
the  lad's  hand,  and  sent  him  off  as  happy  as  a 
king. 

Mrs.  Preston's  handsome  turnout  stood  aa  the 
door,  ready  to  take  her  to  the  Park.  Of  course, 
Aunt  Thorburn  was  asked  to  go  along  ;  although 
Mrs.  Preston  almost  hoped  she  would  plead  a 
headache,  or  the  fatigue  of  her  journey,  as  an 
excuse  for  staying  quietly  at  home.  She  did 
not  appreciate  the  fact  that  a  four  hours'  ride 
in  the  rail-cars,  on  a  bright  autumn  morning, 
was  mere  child's  play  compared  with  what  Aunt 


io6  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Thorburn  did  every  day  of  her  life  at  home,  up 
in  Plastow. 

The  old  lady  came  down  arrayed  in  the  same 
antiquated  bonnet  and  blanket  shawl  that  had 
served  her  for  a  traveling  costume.  Mrs.  Pres 
ton  had  her  own  pet  prejudices,  and  one  of 
them  happened  to  be  a  strong  dislike  for  a 
shawl  of  this  particular  description.  However, 
the  obnoxious  garment  lay  pressed  against  her 
own  rich  velvet  and  lace  on  the  back  seat  of 
the  open  barouche,  while  the  little  girls  sat  in 
front,  and  made  the  air  musical  with  their 
pretty  prattle. 

It  was  one  of  the  perfect  afternoons  at  the 
Park.  The  foliage  of  the  Ramble  was  just 
tinged  with  autumnal  hues,  the  near  city  looked 
transfigured  through  a  violet  haze,  the  pretty 
bridges  were  crowded  with  pleasure-seekers, 
the  swans  swam  off  proudly  through  the  lucent 
water  of  the  lake,  and  the  bright  green  Com 
mon  was  dotted  over  with  the  sheep.  Terrace 
Bridge,  with  its  floating  banners  and  gay  boat 
loads,  looked  like  a  glimpse  from  some  fair  Vene 
tian  picture. 

Aunt  Thorburn  knew  it  "  beat "  any  thing 
up  at  Plastow  "  all  hollow  ;  "  but  she  was  a  little 


Aunt  Thorburn's  Blanket  Shawl.       107 

afraid  of  appearing  country fied  and  admiring  the 
wrong  things,  so  she  did  not  give  expression 
to  quite  all  she  felt.  However,  on  driving  home 
through  Fifth  Avenue,  with  a  crowd  of  fine 
carriages  and  prancing  steeds,  while  the  blue 
haze  of  early  dusk  filled  the  beautiful  street, 
and  the  clear,  sweet  sunset  just  rosed  the  tops 
of  the  highest  houses,  and  the  gas-lamps  began 
to  flicker  down  Murray  Hill,  like  golden  blos 
soms  on  invisible  stems,  Aunt  Thorburn's  face 
did  relax  to  an  expression  of  unmixed  enjoy 
ment. 

I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Preston  was  not  perfectly 
satisfied  with  her  drive.  She  had  met  a  num 
ber  of  fashionable  acquaintances,  and  every  nod 
or  smile  of  recognition  from  a  passing  carriage 
awoke  a  disagreeable  consciousness  of  that 
horrid  old  blanket  shawl  by  her  side.  Mrs. 
Preston  was  right,  nevertheless,  in  thinking  her 
husband  would  be  glad  to  see  his  old  relative. 
He  was  right  glad,  to  see  her,  much  to  his 
credit,  be  it  said.  He  took  her  two  old  bony 
hands  in  his,  and  kissed  her  rather  hard-looking 
cheek  in  the  heartiest  fashion. 

"  Where  have  you  put  Aunt  ? "  he  asked 
after  a  while  of  his  wife. 


io8  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"  Up  in  the  third  story,  Henry.  I  thought 
she  would  be  more  quiet  and  retired  up  there." 

Mr.  Preston  knit  his  brow.  "  You  ought 
to  remember,  Clara,"  said  he,  coldly,  "  that 
Aunt  is  not  as  young  as  we  are,  and  how  un 
accustomed  she  is  to  climbing  the  stairs  of  a 
city  house.  You  had  better  tell  Robert  to 
bring  her  things  down  into  the  room  on  the 
second  floor,  and  kindle  a  little  fire  in  the  grate 
to  take  off  the  chill." 

The  entire  evening  was  spent  in  talking  over 
old  times.  Mrs.  Preston  thought  this  species 
of  entertainment  slow  and  stupid  ;  but  her 
husband  enjoyed  it  hugely.  His  early  days 
were  certainly  not  very  distinguished,  as  he  had 
begun  life  a  poor  boy  and  worked  his  own  way 
up  to  wealth  and  an  enviable  position  on 
'Change.  Still  he  dearly  loved  to  go  back  to 
them,  and  live  over  the  "  scrapes  "  and  madcap 
adventures  of  those  humble  times. 

He  was  in  high  good  humor  when  he  got  to 
his  room  that  night,  after  saying  all  the  cheery 
last  things  he  could  think  of  to  his  old  relative. 
He  had  made  a  snug  little  sum  of  money  during 
the  day  on  the  rise  of  his  favorite  stock. 

"  I  ran  into  Ball  &  Black's,  Clara,"  said  he, 


Aunt  Thorburn's  Blanket  Shawl.       109 

"  as  I  was  passing  to-night,  and  these  trinkets 
took  my  eye.  Pretty,  now,  aint  they  ? " 

"  O  lovely ! "  cried  Mrs.  Preston,  holding  up 
a  pair  of  exquisite  pearl  ear-rings.  "  And  for 
me,  of  course  ? " 

"  Certainly.  Who  else  should  a  fellow  like 
me  buy  ear-rings  for  but  his  wife  ? " 

u  You  are  the  best  husband  I  ever  had  ! " 
And  Mrs.  Preston,  in  her  gratitude,  got  very 
close  to  him,  and  hid  her  rosy  little  mouth  in 
his  mustache.  "But,  dear,"  she  changed  her 
tone  slightly,  "  did  you  bring  that  cheek  you 
promised  ? " 

"  O  bother  the  check  !  What  a  beggar  you 
are,  Clara." 

"I  know  it,  but  what  can  I  do ?  Here,  to 
night,  has  come  in  a  large  bill  for  children's 
shoes." 

"Bills,  bills!  Confound  bills!  I  hate  the 
word." 

"  We  can't  dispense  with  the  thing,  though. 
To-day  I  was  actually  penniless,  and  found  my 
self  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  borrowing  from 
your  aunt." 

"  Borrowing  from  my  aunt !  " 

"  She  happened  to  be  in  the  hall  when  Johnny 


I  io  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Spencer  came.  His  mother  has  been  doing 
some  needlework  for  me.  She  is  sick,  and  in 
want  of  the  money  ;  so  your  aunt  offered  to 
pay." 

"  That  was  awkward — deuced  awkward ! 
How  much  do  you  want  ? "  The  question  was 
put  in  a  very  icy  tone. 

"  I  must  have  at  least  a  hundred,  Henry.  I 
owe  Madame  Pulsifer  alone  almost  that  sum." 

Mr.  Preston  sniffed  at  the  name.  "  It  does 
appear  to  me,  Clara,  that  you  will  have  to 
retrench  in  your  personal  expenses." 

Mrs.  Preston  had  heard  the  same  thing  before. 
If  there  were  any  two  words  in  the  English 
language  she  hated,  they  were  "  retrench  "  and 
"  curtail."  The  pair  went  to  rest  that  night,  in 
their  splendid  home,  with  a  cloud  between  them. 
But  next  morning's  brilliant  sun  scattered  it 
into  nothingness,  and  shrewd  little  Mrs.  Clara 
prepared  to  put  into  execution  a  plan  she  had 
formed  over  night. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  do  some  shop 
ping,  wouldn't  you,  Aunt  ?  The  horses  are  at 
the  door,  and  I  can  drive  you  to  Stewart's  as 
well  as  not." 

Aunt  Thorburn  had  two  of  the  little  girls  in 


Aunt  Thorburn  's  Blanket  Shawl.       1 1 1 

her  lap.  She  was  telling  them  the  absorbing 
history  of  her  calf,  Spot ;  but  she  broke  off  im 
mediately,  and  looked  up  through  her  specs  at 
Mrs.  Preston. 

"  Shopping !  That's  what  we  call  trading,  I 
'spose.  I  don't  know  as  I'm  in  want  of  any 
thing  in  particular  for  myself.  I  did  calculate 
on  buying  some  things  for  Elviry.  She's  my 
niece  that  used  to  live  with  me.  Her  husband 
hain't  no  faculty  for  getting  along.  There  isn't 
much  to  live  on,  and  a  big  family  of  children  to 
feed  and  clothe.  I  don't  allow  you'll  feel  much 
interested  in  her,  though.  I  should  like  to  take 
a  squint  at  Stewart's  gret  store,  but  there's  no 
hurry  at  all." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  get  a  nice  winter 
cloak  for  yourself,  Aunt  ?  I  saw  some  at 
Stewart's  the  other  day  that  I  am  sure  would 
suit  you  exactly,  and  they  struck  me  as 
very  cheap." 

"  How  much  be  they  ? " 

"  Eighty  dollars." 

"  Eighty  dollars  !  "  repeated  Aunt  Thorburn 
slowly.  "  I  can't  begin  to  afford  it." 

Of  course,  nothing  more  was  said  about  the 
cloak  ;  but  Mrs.  Preston  se.t  it  down  in  her 


112  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

own  mind  that  Aunt  Thorburn  was  close  and 
penurious.  She  had  no  very  near  relative 
to  save  her  money  for,  and  it  did  seem  strange 
she  could  not  afford  to  dress  respectably.  The 
old  blanket  shawl  seemed  more  of  a  grievance 
than  ever,  and  Mrs.  Preston  felt  inwardly  irri 
tated  every  time  it  came  in  contact  with  her 
own  rich  raiment. 

"  Didn't  you  tell  me,  Henry,"  she  said  to  her 
husband,  when  opportunity  offered,  "  that  your 
Aunt  Thorburn  was  well  off?" 

"  Well  off,  certainly,  for  the  country.  The 
term  means  something  quite  different  up  in 
Plastow  from  what  it  does  here  in  New  York." 

"  I  do  wish  she  would  get  some  new  clothes, 
and  fix  up  a  little  while  she  is  here  in  the 
city." 

"  I  haven't  noticed  any  thing  amiss  with  her. 
She  always  looks  good  to  me  whatever  she  has 
on."  Mr.  Preston  spoke  with  a  slight  degree 
of  acerbity.  He  never  encouraged  criticism 
on  his  own  side  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Preston  dropped  the  subject  for  the 
present,  but  she  was  more  and  more  convinced 
that  Aunt  Thorburn  was  niggardly.  When 
Sunday  came,  the  little  lady  had  hoped  her 


Aunt  Thorburn  's  Blanket  Shawl.       1 1 3 

husband  would  propose  to  take  his  relative  over 
to  Brooklyn,  to  hear  a  certain  celebrated 
preacher  who  does  not  hold  forth  strictly  to 
an  upper-ten  audience.  Now  Mrs.  Preston's 
church  was  an  upper-ten  church,  and  all  the 
worshipers  round  about  her  pew  knew  the  cost 
of  her  camel's  hair  shawl  and  the  exact  value  of 
her  diamonds. 

However,  with  a  contrariness  not  uncommon 
to  men,  Mr.  Preston  said,  although  he  had  no 
warrant  for  saying  it,  that  his  aunt  was  going 
to  stay  a  number  of  weeks,  and  there  would  be 
plenty  of  time  for  Brooklyn  ;  he  wanted  her  to 
hear  his  own  minister  first.  Accordingly,  the 
camel's  hair  shawl  went  into  the  house  of  God 
alongside  the  old  black-and-white  plaid  ;  and  I 
am  afraid  Mrs.  Preston  thought  more  about 
that  and  about  Aunt  Thorburn's  stinginess  than 
she  did  of  the  sermon,  which  was  on  the  danger 
of  growing  worldly. 

"  I  will  take  you  this  afternoon  anywhere 
you  would  like  to  go,"  said  Mrs.  Preston  to 
Aunt  Thorburn  after  dinner  was  over,  and 
Mr.  Preston  had  stretched  himself  out  on  the 
sofa  for  a  Sunday  nap. 

"  Well,    now,"   returned     the    old   lady,   "  I 


1 14  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

should  like  to  visit  the  Five  Points  (she  pro 
nounced  it  Pints)  House  of  Industry  ;  but  I 
dare  say  you've  been  there  so  often  it  wouldn't 
be  any  treat  to  you." 

Mrs.  Preston  was  feign  to  confess,  with  a 
degree  of  shame,  that  she  had  never  visited  that 
excellent  institution,  but  she  declared  herself 
quite  ready  to  go.  She  put  on  her  plainest 
walking-suit  and  her  shabbiest  bonnet,  and  they 
set  off  in  the  horse-car. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  that  most 
touching  sight — a  congregation  of  poor,  de 
graded  little  beings,  picked  up  and  gathered  in 
from  the  streets  to  listen  to  good  words  and 
feel  the  touch  of  a  blessed  human  charity. 

Mrs.  Preston  had  a  mother's  heart  in  her 
bosom,  and  she  sat  and  cried  softly  behind  her 
thread-lace  vail  all  through  the  exercises. 

When  they  were  over,  Aunt  Thorburn  made 
her  way  to  the  superintendent  and  slipped  a 
little  roll  of  bills  into  his  hand.  He  looked  at  it 
in  surprise. 

"  A  hundred  dollars  !  What  name  did  you 
say?"' 

"  Hannah  Thorburn,  from  Plastow." 

"  Mrs.    Thorburn,   I    do    not   know  how  to 


Aunt  Thorburn' s  Blanket  Shawl.       115 

express  my  thanks  for  so  generous  a  gift.  It 
comes  just  when  it  is  most  needed." 

Aunt  Thorburn  made  her  escape.  A  hun 
dred  dollars !  Had  Mrs.  Preston  heard  aright  ? 
She  had  given  a  dollar  herself;  it  was  all  she 
thought  she  could  afford.  When  they  got  into 
the  street,  while  the  tears  were  still  wet  upon 
her  cheeks,  she  asked  the  question. 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Aunt  Thorburn.  "  You 
see  there  aint  many  chances  of  doing  good  up 
in  Plastow.  The  farmers  are  all  pretty  fore 
handed  in  our  community." 

•Not  many  chances  of  doing  good !  Mrs. 
Preston  did  not  speak  again  for  some  time. 
She  was  feeling  sorry  for  her  harsh  judgment 
of  Aunt  Thorburn — for  calling  her  stingy 
and  mean  in  her  thoughts.  She  was  feeling, 
too,  as  if  she  would  like  to  take  up  a  corner  of 
the  old  black-and-white  shawl  and  kiss  it. 

Aunt  Thorburn  did  stay  in  New  York  several 
weeks.  She  saw  Johnny  and  his  mother,  and 
comforted  them.  She  filled  all  the  spare  cor 
ners  of  her  shabby  little  trunk  with  things  for 
Elvira  and  the  children.  She  saw  more  of  the 
charitable  institutions  of  New  York  and  didmore 
for  them  in  one  month  than  Henry  Preston  and 


1 1 6  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

his  wife  had  done  in  twelve  years.  If  there  is 
a  saint's  niche  in  the  Preston  family,  I  think 
Aunt  Thorburn  is  destined  to  stand  there  with 
her  old  black-and-white  plaid  blanket  shawl 
wrapped  round  her  gaunt  shoulders  ;  and  per 
haps  her  nephew  and  his  wife  will  look  up  to 
the  old  lady's  height,  and  be  helped  out  of  the 
slough  of  selfish  indulgence,  in  which  they  were 
in  great  danger  of  getting  mired. 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  Joke.       117 


AMOS   STANHOPE'S   PRACTICAL  JOKE. 


"OW,boys,  don't  hector  Lyddy,"  said  Mrs. 
Stanhope  as  she  untied  the  tapestrings 
of  her  checked  apron,  and  with  a  little  sigh  of 
relief  settled  into  the  wicker-backed  rocking- 
chair. 

"  Of  course  not,"  returned  Amos,  as  grave 
as  a  judge,  while  at  the  same  time  he  gave  his 
brother  Sam  a  private  nudge.  "But  why 
couldn't  she  bring  her  beau  right  in  here,  and 
let  us  get  a  squint  at  him  ?  If  father  was  at 
home  he  wouldn't  like  her  to  be  having  an  extra 
fire  and  light  in  the  keeping-room." 

"  O  it's  no  great  matter,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope, 
taking  up  her  basket  of  mending,  which  always 
appeared  to  be  in  a  chronic  state  of  overflow. 
"We  can  bring  the  coals  out  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Hardy  goes.  And  you  had  better  not  speak 
about  it  to  father,"  she  added,  with  a  twinge 
of  remorse  at  the  small  lessons  of  deceit  she 


1 1 8  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

was  obliged  to  instill;  "for  poor  Lyddy  don't 
have  many  pleasures." 

"  I  guess  I  know  how  to  hold  my  tongue," 
replied  Amos,  a  little  sharply,  as  he  smeared 
out  a  sum  upon  his  slate  with  the  elbow  of  his 
jacket ;  "  but  it  would  be  fun  to  tease  Lyddy 
about  the  sparking.  I  should  think  a  fellow 
would  feel  awful  streaked  running  after  a  girl, 
and  sitting  up  and  twirling  his  thumbs  before 
her.  You'll  never  catch  me  at  that  business, 
see  if  you  do." 

"  There's  no  telling  what  foolishness  you  may 
go  into  one  of  these  days,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope, 
with  a  faint  smile  circling  her  sad  lips.  "  But 
come,  now,  you  had  better  make  haste  to  bed. 
There  is  Sam  nodding  over  his  book,  and  I 
shall  have  no  end  of  trouble  to  get  you  up  in 
the  morning  in  time  to  do  the  chores." 

Amos  lighted  his  candle  rather  reluctantly, 
and  began  to  climb  the  chamber-stair,  with  little 
Sam  behind,  yawning  and  carrying  his  shoes 
in  his  hand. 

"  Suppose  we  go  and  listen  at  the  stove-pipe 
hole,"  whispered  Amos  in  Sam's  ear,  with  a  sup 
pressed  chuckle.  "  It  would  be  such  prime  fun 
to  hear  that  spooney's  soft  speeches." 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  yoke.       119 

Sam  woke  up  bright  at  the  prospect  of  a 
"lark."  And  Amos  blew  out  the  candle,  and 
in  their  stocking-feet  the  boys  stole  to  the  spare 
chamber,  and  applied  their  ears  to  the  stove 
pipe-hole,  pinching  each  other  to  keep  from 
"  snorting,"  as  Amos  expressed  it.  There  was 
a  peculiarly  sonorous  quality  to  the  voice  of 
Lyddy's  beau  that  brought  sound  without  sense 
to  the  roguish  listeners  ;  or  else  he  spoke  in  a 
low,  confidential  tone,  which  seemed  to  go  on 
most  of  the  time,  except  when  it  was  interrupted 
by  Lyddy's  pleased,  shy  little  laugh. 

Just  as  Amos  had  creaked  the  loose  board 
overhead,  and  was  holding  his  breath  for  fear 
he  should  be  discovered,  the  outside  door  closed 
and  Lyddy's  beau  was  gone.  The  young  girl 
stood  a  moment  in  the  keeping-room,  and  heard 
the  runners  of  his  cutter  creak  as  he  turned  out 
into  the  hard-packed  road.  Mr.  Hardy's  mare 
was  restive  from  standing  so  long  in  the  cold  ; 
and  now  he  let  her  go  as  straight  as  an  arrow, 
shaking  off  a  spray  of  music  from  the  sleigh- 
bells.  Lyddy's  cheeks  were  burning  over  some 
thing  Ben  Hardy  had  done  at  parting.  It  was 
certainly  very  impertinent  in  the  young  man, 
and  she  ought  to  be  very  angry  with  him  for 


1 20  Stones  for  Leistire  Hours. 

taking  her  so  completely  by  surprise.  It  should 
never  happen  again — no,  never ;  and  she  would 
keep  it  a  dead  secret,  locked  in  her  own  bosom. 

So,  still  flustered,  Lyddy  ran  out  into  the 
kitchen,  where  her  mother  sat  by  the  dying 
embers  of  the  hearth,  putting  the  last  patch  on 
Sam's  trousers.  Lyddy  was  scarcely  a  pretty 
girl,  but  there  was  something  very  soft  and 
feminine  about  her.  The  old  blue  de  laine, 
which  had  been  turned  twice  in  the  skirt,  and 
would  have  looked  like  a  fright  on  any  body  else, 
seemed  to  make  a  perfect  toilet  for  Lyddy  as 
she  settled  down  in  its  folds  at  her  mother's 
feet,  with  the  red,  uncertain  light  from  the 
coals  on  the  hearth  playing  over  her  fleecy 
hair  and  reddening  her  delicate  cheek,  which 
was  not  plump  enough  to  give  evidence  of 
buxom  health. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  was  tall,  gaunt,  and  bony,  with 
marks  of  toil  and  anxiety  upon  her  bent  shoul 
ders  and  gray,  joyless  face,  where  the  blanching 
locks  were  smoothed  back  in  perfect  plainness. 
It  was  easy  to  see  that  she  had  never  had,  even 
in  her  youth,  the  soft,  round  outlines  of  Lyddy 's 
form  ;  but  there  was  an  exceeding  tenderness  in 
her  face  as  it  beamed  on  her  young  daughter, 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  Joke.       121 

which  seemed  to  glorify  the  rugged  features. 
You  saw  that  Lyddy  was  the  apple  of  her  eye 
— the  white  dove  that  folded  its  wings  in  her 
careworn  bosom — the  ewe  lamb  she  would  wish 
to  bear  in  her  arms  over  all  the  rough  places  of 
the  world. 

The  old  kitchen,  with  its  low  walls  and  heavy 
beams,  was  very  much  in  shadow  now,  except 
the  red  core  of  the  fire,  and  Lyddy  sitting  by  it, 
against  the  background  made  by  her  mother's 
chair. 

"  Wasn't  it  odd  Mr.  Hardy  should  have  come 
all  the  way  over  from  Millford  just  to  call  ? " 
said  Lyddy,  pulling  down  Mrs.  Stanhope's  hand 
from  the  coarse  mending,  and  patting  the  big 
steel  thimble  on  the  middle  finger,  and  the  hard 
joints,  enlarged  by  hard  work.  "  His  father  is 
the  rich  man  up  at  Millford,  a  merchant  and 
mill-owner  ;  and  all  the  girls  are  crazy  after 
Ben." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  smiled  a  sad,  wistful  sort  of 
smile,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  about 
to  get  a  glimpse  into  the  depths  of  Lyddy's 
simple,  unsullied  heart. 

"I  hope  Mr.  Hardy  is  a  young  man  of  good 
habits  and  principles,"  said  she.  "  Jiicl}  men's 


122  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

sons  are  too  apt  to  depend  on  their  father's 
money.  I  don't  want  any  body  to  come  after 
you,  Lyddy,  who  can't  make  his  own  way  in 
the  world." 

.  "  Of  course,  mother,  he  don't  mean  any  thing. 
That  is — I  don't  believe  Ben  has  got  a  bad  habit 
in  the  world,  unless  he  is  fond  of  tobacco.  The 
young  men  of  Millford  are  a  hard  set,  and  go 
on  sprees  sometimes ;  but  Ben  has  always  kept 
clear  of  them.  He  says  a  man  must  respect 
himself  first,  if  he  is  going  to  come  to  anything 
in  life.  You  ought  to  hear  him  talk,  mother. 
He  is  going  out  West  for  a  year  to  get  estab 
lished  in  business." 

Lyddy's  cheeks  were  burning  again,  and  her 
little  warm  hands  were  nervously  fumbling 
Mrs.  Stanhope's.  The  grave,  sad-eyed  woman 
smiled  again  with  a  feeling  half  sweet,  half  pa 
thetic,  and  seemed  to  glance  far  back  to  a  day  in 
her  own  life  when  there  was  a  faintly-budding 
romance,  which  had  soon  withered  and  died. 

"  You  must  be  very  careful,  Lyddy.  It's  a 
serious  thing  to  get  to  thinking  too  much  about 
a  person.  Folks  marry  sometimes  when  they 
are  quite  ignorant  of  their  own  hearts,  and 
wake  up  to  find  they  have  made  a  mistake." 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  Joke.       128 

"  O,  mother,  don't  be  so  doleful ! "  cried 
Lyddy.  "  There  isn't  any  thing  between  Ben 
and  me.  I  don't  believe  he  means  much !  "  and 
her  voice  died  out  faintly,  and  her  heart  gave  a 
dull  thud,  with  the  consciousness  that  it  would 
be  very  dreary  if  Ben  didn't  mean  much.  "  I 
thought  it  would  be  so  nice,"  she  went  on,  "  if 
we  could  have  the  girls  in  some  evening  before 
Ben  goes  way.  Father  wont  be  home  until 
next  week,  and  he  need  not  know  a  word  about 
it.  You  know,  mother,  I  never  do  have  com 
pany  at  home,  and  I  feel  ashamed  to  go  any 
where  on  that  account." 

"  I  don't  know  what  your  father  would  say, 
Lyddy,  if  he  should  hear  we  had  been  getting 
up  a  party  in  his  absence.  The  girls  might 
seem  to  happen  in,  though,  might  they  not  ?  I 
could  send  a  pail  of  butter  over  to  the  store  by 
Amos  to  buy  loaf  sugar  for  a  cake,  and  we  have 
got  apples  and  hickory-nuts  and  cider  enough 
in  the  house  to  help  along  ;  and  I  think  just  this 
once  I  might  squeeze  out  a  cup  of  coffee." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  hated  the  small  deceptions 
she  was  obliged  to  practice  in  her  family ;  and, 
with  a  serious  and  reflective  turn  of  mind,  she 
dreaded  the  consequences  upon  her  children. 


124  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

The  next  morning,  when  she  gave  the  pail  of 
butter  to  Amos,  and  charged  him  with  a  secret 
mission  to  the  store-keeper,  the  boy  flared  up. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  in  a  year  or  two  I'm 
going  to  quit  the  old  shanty,  and  then  I  guess 
I  can  earn  money  enough  to  keep  you  above 
board,  so  that  you  wont  have  to  pinch  and  screw. 
I  do  hate  this  underhand  business  like  poison." 

"  Amos,  don't  speak  of  your  home  in  that 
way." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  when,  to  tell  the  truth, 
father  is  so  tight  he  wont  let  us  have  things 
like  other  folks.  How  can  he  expect  us  to  be 
fond  of  home,  I  should  like  to  know  ? " 

"  Hush,  child !  Your  father  is  an  industrious, 
sober,  hard-working  man,  and  does  what  he 
thinks  is  right.  Remember  what  the  Bible 
says  about  honoring  your  parents,  and  how 
much  worse  it  would  be  if  he  was  a  drunkard." 

The  faults  which  people  happen  to  be  free 
from  do  not  excuse  those  they  have.  Amos 
trudged  away  quite  unconvinced  by  this  logic, 
and  thinking  what  a  change  he  would  make  in 
his  life  when  he  should  acquire  the  rights  of  a 
man. 

There  was  happiness  enough  for  Mrs.  Stan- 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  Joke.       125 

hope  in  watching  Lyddy  as  she  tripped  about 
the  old  dilapidated  farm-house,  inventing  little 
feminine  contrivances  to  make  the  dingy  rooms 
look  a  thought  more  cheery.  The  faded  chintz 
lounge-cover  was  washed  and  starched  fresh, 
and  the  holes  in  the  carpet  mended  with  patches 
of  the  same.  Lyddy  placed  the  furniture  about 
so  as  skillfully  to  hide  the  worn  spots.  Good, 
neighborly  Mrs.  Shaw  lent  her  plated  candle 
sticks  and  high  preserve  dishes  ;  and  Lyddy, 
while  she  rubbed  the  knives  and  got  little  smears 
of  brickdust  on  her  pretty  round  arms,  was  all 
the  time  whispering  to  herself  that  she  wasn't 
the  least  bit  in  love  with  Ben  Hardy. 

She  was  a  good  deal  puzzled  to  know  just 
how  to  WQrd  her  note  of  invitation  ;  and  at  last 
opened  it  in  a  very  prim,  school-ma' amish  way, 
which  Ben  did  not  imitate  in  his  reply.  He 
began,  "  Dearest  Lyddy,"  as  natural  as  you 
please ;  and  the  foolish,  fond  little  girl  kissed 
the  words  in  a  flutter  of  delight,  and  hid  the 
billet  in  her  bosom. 

It  is  not  probable  that  Mrs.  Stanhope  would 
have  ventured  into  the  room  at  all  that  evening 
if  her  curiosity  concerning  "  Lyddy's  beau  "  had 
not  been  excessive.  She  thought  her  place  was 


126  Stories  for  Leisttre  Hours. 

in  the  kitchen,  making  the  coffee  and  setting 
out  the  best  blue  dishes  ;  but  Lyddy  would 
have  her  put  on  her  Sunday  gown,  and  hide  her 
scant  gray  hair  under  a  cappy  head-dress,  which 
she  had  made  out  of  the  trimmings  of  her  last 
summer's  bonnet  and  an  old  lace  vail,  come 
down,  as  Lyddy  remarked,  from  the  year  one. 

"It's  so  long  since  I've  been  in  company," 
said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  in  a  good  deal  of  a  fluster, 
"  I'm  afraid  I  sha'n't  know  how  to  appear." 

"  Never  mind,  mother,"  said  Lyddy,  capering 
about  her,  and  adding  the  last  touches  to  her 
dress.  "We'll  have  you  as  lively  as  a  cricket 
before  the  evening  is  over." 

Lyddy's  soft  cheeks  were  blooming,  and  her 
eyes  were  bright  and  moist  with  pleasant  excite 
ment.  She  wore  her  old  dove-colored  para- 
metta,  with  three  darns  on  the  back  breadth ; 
but  the  blue  neck-ribbon  and  the  smiling  face 
of  the  little  maiden  seemed  to  glorify  it. 

"  We  must  be  careful  of  the  loaf  sugar,  and 
not  cut  any  more  cake  than  will  be  needed. 
For  my  part  I  don't  care  for  cake,"  said  Mrs. 
Stanhope,  with  the  wrinkles  of  the  careful  Mar 
tha  forming  between  her  eyebrows. 

"  Whew !  I  guess  I  do ! "  put  in  Amos,  who 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  yoke.       127 

was  dressing  in  one  corner  of  the  room.  "  I'll 
have  as  much  as  I  can  eat  for  once  in  my  life. 
Hang  it !  these  collars  never  will  set  anyhow," 
and  he  gave  his  cravat  an  angry  jerk.  "Do, 
Lyddy,  come  and  see  if  you  can't  tie  a  decent 
bow." 

"  You  will  behave  yourself  like  a  gentleman 
to-night,  wont  you,  Amos,  and  not  be  up  to  any 
pranks  ? "  coaxed  Lyddy  as  she  fussed  about 
the  boy's  neck  with  her  slender  fingers,  and 
clipped  the  ragged  part  from  his  collar,  and  tied 
his  bow  to  a  charm. 

"  I  guess  I  shall  keep  a  little  shady,"  returned 
Amos ;  "  for  my  shoes  have  got  two  great 
cracks  in  them,  and  I  hate  the  girls  like  poison. 
They  are  always  making  fun  of  a  fellow.  What 
I  go  in  for  is  the  good  eating." 

Three  large  sleigh-loads  of  merry-makers 
drove  up  to  the  door  in  the  sparkling  winter 
starlight,  and  stout  Miss  Brewer  had  to  be 
helped  upon  her  feet  by  two  young  men,  and,  in 
a  weakening  fit  of  laughter,  she  fell  into  the 
arms  of  a  third.  This  one  proved  to  be  Ben 
Hardy.  He  freed  himself  from  the  armful  as 
soon  as  he  conveniently  could,  and  went  to  find 
Lyddy,  and  to  whisper  something  in  her  ear 


128  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

which  made  the  lids  droop  over  her  eyes  and 
her  cheeks  flush  into  sensitive  beauty.  After 
that  she  owned  to  herself,  with  a  thrill  of  ex 
quisite  joy,  that  Ben  did  like  her  a  little  ;  and, 
moreover,  he  was  not  in  the  least  ashamed  to 
show  his  partiality. 

Amos  watched  proceedings  with  the  eye  of  a 
cynic. 

"  Pugh !  "  He  wondered  how  a  fellow  could 
make  himself  so  "  soft." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  watched  too,  with  tender  and 
anxious  solicitude,  and  her  heart  instinctively 
warmed  toward  the  frank,  manly  young  fellow 
who  could  carry  on  his  wooing  so  bravely.  There 
was  Patty  Frisbee,  a  little  maiden  with  snap 
ping  black  eyes  and  an  active  spirit  of  mischief. 
Somebody  had  let  her  hair  down  and  put 
a  boy's  cap  on  her  head,  and  she  was  going 
through  the  contortions  of  "  Queen  Dido." 

"  Let's  have  forfeits,  or  pillows  and  keys," 
suggested  Bruce  Hoyt.  Forfeits  carried  the 
day,  and  the  very  first  time  Amos  was  caught 
tripping,  and  was  judged  to  "  go  to  Rome,"  a 
doom  he  escaped  by  making  a  rush  for  the  door, 
and  slipping  through  the  hands  of  half  a  dozen 
laughing  maidens. 


Amos  Stanhope1  s  Practical  Joke.       129 

"  Whew ! "  thought  he  as  he  got  outside  in 
the  cold  air.  "  I'd  sooner  take  an  emetic  than 
go  through  that  job." 

After  that  Ben  Hardy  was  condemned  to 
measure  a  yard  of  tape  with  every  girl  in  the 
room,  and  he  went  about  the  business  with 
commendable  alacrity.  Miss  Brewer  took  ref 
uge  behind  a  rocking-chair,  and  rashly  declared 
that  nobody  should  reach  her  lips ;  but  the 
young  man  boldly  scaled  the  barrier,  and  the 
business  of  tape-measuring  went  on  amid  a 
series  of  little  hysterical  screams  and  much  dis 
arrangement  of  the  lady's  back  hair.  When  he 
came  to  Lyddy's  place,  she  had  vanished  ;  and 
Ben,  who  was  keen  on  the  scent,  having  done 
so  much  lip-service  to  reach  her,  was  obliged  to 
pursue  into  unknown  regions — the  kitchen,  and 
even  the  wood-shed — where,  it  is  to  be  supposed, 
he  took  ample  revenge  for  his  pains. 

Then  there  followed  a  round  game;  and 
Ben  Hardy  actually  pulled  Mrs.  Stanhope 
into  the  play,  and  made  her  spin  about  like  a 
top. 

"  Do  let  me  ketch  a  breath,"  gasped  the  good 
woman,  sinking  down  into  a  chair,  weak  and 
exhausted  with  laughter.  "  I'm  clean  beat  out, 


1 30  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

and  any  body  would  think  I  was  fit  for  an 
asylum." 

When  it  came  to  the  guessing  plays,  Amos 
and  Patty  Frisbee  were  sent  out  into  the  entry. 
By  this  time  they  had  about  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  they  were  affinities.  Patty  had  a 
boy's  tastes,  and  liked  fun ;  and  there  was 
no  stuff  and  nonsense  about  her.  The  two 
were  just  ripe  for  mischief.  Mr.  Hardy's  coat 
— a  very  nice  new  one,  with  velvet  collar  and 
frogged  buttons — was  hanging  on  a  nail  in  the 
entry. 

"  What  a  swell  that  chap  is ! "  said  Amos, 
pulling  out  one  end  of  a  white  handkerchief 
from  the  pocket.  "  Pugh !  it  smells  like  a 
drug-shop." 

"  There's  something  heavy  in  the  tail-pocket," 
returned  Patty.  "  Would  you  mind  putting  in 
your  hand  to  feel  it  ? " 

Amos  followed  the  roguish  girl's  suggestion, 
and  pulled  out  a  handsome  tobacco-box,  lined 
with  tortoise-shell. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  fill  it  with  pepper  ? " 
whispered  Patty. 

"  No.  Soft-soap  would  do  better,"  returned 
Amos,  who  was  apt  to  carry  things  too  far. 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  Joke.       131 

"  I  could  make  him  think  Lyddy  did  it," 
added  Patty,  "and  that  would  be  a  splendid 
joke." 

Before  the  call  came  from  the  keeping-room 
the  boy  had  filled  Mr.  Hardy's  box  with  a  very 
dark,  soft  substance,  and  slipped  it  back  into 
its  place.  During  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
Amos  and  Patty  exploded  in  a  burst  of  merri 
ment  whenever  they  chanced  to  meet. 

"What's  the  joke?"  inquired  Mr.  Hardy  as 
he  chased  the  madcap  round  the  room  in  a 
game  of  fox  and  geese. 

"  Ask  Lyddy,"  replied  Patty,  her  eyes  dancing 
with  mischief.  "  She  knows  all  about  it."  And 
poor  Lyddy,  to  keep  the  fun  going,  pretended 
she  did  know,  when,  in  truth,  she  was  as  uncon 
scious  as  an  infant. 

That  night  Lyddy  went  to  bed  wondering  if 
she  should  ever  pass  another  evening  so  full  of 
happiness  as  this  had  been.  She  hid  her  face 
in  the  pillow  with  delicious  and  confusing  mem 
ories  of  Mr.  Hardy,  and  then  a  fit  of  humility 
came  upon  her,  and  she  wondered  how  he  could 
care  for  a  simple,  plain  little  girl  like  her.  She 
could  not  think  of  the  future,  so  content  was 

she  with  the  blissful,  inexplicable  present. 
9 


132  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Amos,  when  opportunity  allowed  him  to  re 
flect  on  his  practical  joke,  grew  half  ashamed  of 
himself  and  apprehensive  of  consequences.  He 
longed  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  Lyddy, 
for  there  was  nothing  ungenerous  or  sneaking 
in  the  lad's  nature ;  but  he  was  hurried  with 
his  chores  in  the  morning,  and  after  that  was 
obliged  to  make  haste  to  school,  so  that  poor 
Lyddy  was  left  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  evil 
impending.  At  noon  there  came  a  note  from 
Millford.  Lyddy  knew  Ben's  handwriting,  and 
she  ran  with  it  to  her  chamber  and  kissed 
it  foolishly  and  fondly  over  and  over  again. 
It  seemed  as  though  every  thing  must  have 
stood  still  for  a  moment  when  Lyddy  opened 
the  little  billet  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  first 
words.  It  began  : 

"  Miss  Stanhope,  I  feel  that  I  was  grossly  in 
sulted  in  your  house  last  night,  and  it  gives 
me  the  greatest  pain  to  believe  that  you  were 
aware  of  the  circumstances.  The  pockets  of 
my  great-coat  were  meddled  with,  and  my  to 
bacco-box  was  maliciously  filled  with  soft-soap, 
which,  when  the  box  was  carelessly  opened,  ran 
down  upon  my  clothes  and  utterly  ruined  them. 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  Joke.       133 

The  loss  is  of  small  consequence,  but  the  in 
dignity  I  deeply  feel.  I  had  heretofore  flattered 
myself  that  you  were  my  friend,  but  this  occur 
rence  puts  things  in  a  new  light. 

(Signed)         "B.  HARDY." 

The  note  was  written  by  an  ^ngry  man,  who 
would  certainly  one  day  repent  of  his  anger ; 
but  no  consideration  of  this  kind  softened  the 
heavy  blow  which  Lyddy  was  called  upon  to 
sustain.  When  Amos  got  home  at  night  he 
found  her  face  pale,  and  her  eyes  red  and  swollen 
from  weeping.  In  shame  and  sorrow  of  heart 
the  boy  confessed  his  sin.  Mrs.  Stanhope  would 
not  rest  until  Amos  had  written  a  humble, 
repentant  letter  to  Mr.  Hardy,  clearing  poor 
Lyddy  from  every  shade  of  blame. 

Spring  had  come,  and  it  seemed  to  Lyddy 
that  the  thread  of  her  pretty  romance  had  been 
snapped  asunder,  never  again  to  be  mended. 
Her  face  grew  shadowy,  wan,  and  wistful ;  but 
she  did  not  complain.  Ben  Hardy  had  not 
come  back.  She  knew  that  he  had  left  Mill- 
ford,  and  probably  long  before  this  time  he  had 
forgotten  the  little,  loving,  confiding  girl  whose 
heart  he  had  so  surely  won,  for  Lyddy  did 


134  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

not  deceive  herself  any  longer.  She  sighed, 
and  went  about  her  work,  and  tried  to  forget — 
a  task  she  never  could  accomplish. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  had  been  sick  with  a  low  fever 
for  many  weeks,  and  a  hired  girl  was  not  to  be 
thought  of  in  Mrs.  Stanhope's  economy,  so  the 
brunt  of  the  work  fell  upon  Lyddy's  shoulders. 
She  did  not  mind  it  much.  She  was  glad  to  have 
something  to  fill  her  hands  full.  But  every  day 
the  little  face  grew  more  spiritual,  sweet,  and  pa 
tient  ;  and  the  sick  mother,  following  her  child's 
motions  with  large,  bright  eyes,  seemed  to  be 
always  praying.  A  great  change  had  come  over 
Amos.  He  seemed  to  have  outgrown  the  boor 
ish,  unmanly  pranks  of  a  bo^,  and,  with  the 
thoughtful  kindness  of  a  man,  to  try  and  make 
Lyddy  forget  the  wrong  he  had  done  her. 

One  spring  day,  when  the  orchards  were  like 
soft,  rosy  clouds  resting  upon  the  earth,  Lyddy 
went  out  to  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  walked 
along  the  perfumed  roads,  and  pressed  the  ten 
der  young  grass,  and  thought  it  would  not  be 
very  hard  to  die,  even  when  every  thing  was 
in  its  first  budding  beauty.  Just  as  she  had 
reached  Bright's  Corner,  and  was  turning  back 
toward  home,  a  horseman  came  spurring  round 


Amos  Stanhope's  Practical  Joke.       13$ 

the  turn.  Instantly  he  sprang  to  the  ground,  and 
seized  both  of  Lyddy's  little  trembling  hands  in 
his.  It  was  Ben  Hardy,  looking  browner  and 
handsomer  and  more  irresistible  than  ever. 
Lyddy  afterward  could  not  remember  just  what 
happened ;  but  there  seemed  to  be  a  happy 
mist  about  her,  and  Ben  was  saying  something 
over  and  over  again  in  a  very  tender  and  thrill 
ing  tone. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me,  Lyddy,  for  that  cruel, 
savage  note?  Patty  Frisbee  made  me  believe 
you  had  a  hand  in  the  joke,  and  Amos's  letter 
miscarried,  amd  followed  me  all  over  the  West. 
But  before  I  knew  the  truth  my  heart  was  so 
sick  with  longing  to  see  you,  and  make  it  up,  I 
was  heartily  ashamed  of  myself,  and  only  wanted 
an  excuse  to  come  back." 

•'*  I  hope  you  have  forgiven  poor  Amos,"  said 
Lyddy,  hardly  knowing  what  words  were  shap 
ing  themselves  upon  her  lips.  "  He  has  been 
so  miserable  and  low-spirited  about  it." 

"  Forgiven  him  ! "  cried  Ben.  "  He  is  a  capital 
fellow,  and  has  done  me  a  real  service.  His  prank 
so  disgusted  me  with  tobacco  in  all  its  forms  I 
have  never  been  able  to  touch  it  since,  and  within 
the  last  six  months  I  have  more  than  saved  the 


136  Stories  fot  Leisure  Hours. 

price  of  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  better  than  those 
that  were  spoiled." 

Within  two  years  after  Lyddy's  marriage 
Amos  wrote  a  love-letter  to  Patty  Frisbee,  which 
she  showed  to  all  the  girls  and  made  no  end  of 
fun  of.  He  is  still  unmarried.  The  firm  of 
Hardy  &  Stanhope  now  does  a  flourishing 
business  out  West,  and  old  Mrs.  Stanhope 
looks  younger  and  happier  than  she  did  ten 
years  ago.  Her  children  have  made  her  life 
soft  and  easy ;  and  the  old  farm-house  wears  a 
look  of  comfort  and  plenty,  which  it  never  wore 
in  the  days  when  Lyddy  was  a  girl. 


The  Old  Squire's  Wrath.  137 


THE  OLD  SQUIRE'S  WRATH. 


rHf,oHE  gates  of  the  old  Northrup  place  stood 

1-%F\ 

(^>  wide  open — which  was  their  usual  attitude 

— and  the  house  wore  a  warm,  comfortable,  low 
browed  look,  in  spite  of  the  gaunt  trees  behind 
it,  and  the  bleak  November  sky,  betokening 
snow.  It  was  a  sort  of  eye-brightener  to  the 
chilled  farmers  driving  past  with  loads  of  cheese- 
boxes  or  starkly-frozen  pork.  Sometimes  one 
or  another  would  point  out  the  old  place  with 
his  whip  to  some  chance  companion  on  the  seat 
beside  him,  and  then  would  come  the  question  : 

"  Is  the  old  Squire  alive  yet  ? " 

"  Bless  you,  yes  ;  and  as  brisk  as  he  was 
at  forty,  and  as  straight  as  an  elum-sapling. 
The  Squire  is  reg'lar  old  style,  brass-mounted. 
You  heard,  didn't  you,  how  he  turned  his  girl  out 
of  doors  long  ago  for  marrying  against  his  wishes? 
He's  never  given  in  a  hair.  Folks  in  these 
parts  call  him  a  pretty  hard  old  customer." 


1 3  8  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

And  sometimes,  in  the  rattle  of  wagon-wheels 
over  the  frozen  ruts,  the  two  last  syllables  of  the 
epithet  appeared  to  be  dispensed  with. 

Jerry,  the  clock-mender  and  licensed  stroller 
of  the  country  side,  was  coming  out  of  Squire 
Northrup's  door  into  the  nipping  cold.  His 
thin  old  coat,  much  whitened  across  the  shoul 
der-blades,  and  bravely  fastened  over  the  chest 
by  two  stout  pins — for  buttons  it  had  none — 
and  his  bony,  red  wrists,  and  lean  shanks,  cased 
though  they  were  in  blue  yarn  socks  and  a  pair 
of  shabby  high-lows,  promised  ill  for  a  long  pull 
in  the  teeth  of  the  bitter  wind.  However,  Jer 
ry's  blue  eyes  twinkled  merrily  in  his  rheumy 
old  face,  above  many  folds  of  a  plaid  gingham 
muffler,  for  he  was  conscious  of  a  thanksgiving 
spare-rib  in  his  kit-bag,  and  a  bottle  of  Dame 
Northrup's  best  cherry  bounce,  warming,  com 
fortable  stuff  to  a  stomach  habitually  as  cold 
and  pinched  as  was  the  clock-mender's. 

The  Squire's  wife  came  trotting  out  behind, 
with  her  cap-strings  dabbled  in  flour  and  specks 
of  the  same  powdering  her  nose.  A  spicy, 
mince-meaty  fragrance  appeared  to  cling  to  her 
big  motherly  apron  ;  and  her  expression,  which 
was  habitually  "  flustercated,"  as  Betsy  Bingle, 


The  Old  Squire's  Wrath,  139 

"  the  help,"  expressed  it,  seemed  aggravated  by 
the  exigences  of  the  season.  There  she  stood, 
peering  up  through  her  glasses  at  Jerry,  while 
he  raised  his  hand  and  hemmed  mysteriously. 

"  It's  all  right,  mum,"  said  he  in  a  loud 
whisper.  "  The  tin  bucket  is  at  the  usual 
roundivoos  in  the  hay-loft,  and  the  things  come 
good  to  Lindy,  I  can  tell  you  they  did." 

"  Would  it  be  much  out  of  your  way  to  go 
home  by  Batesville  ?  " 

"  Not  a  mite,  Miss  Northrup.  What  does  a 
mile  or  two  extra  signify  to  a  man  when  his 
legs  are  as  sound  as  the  day  he  was  born  !  " 
And  Jerry  patted  his  lean  nether  limbs,  as  if  he 
considered  them  a  particularly  fine  pair. 

"  Then  you  may  stop  and  tell  her  the  Squire's 
away  from  home.  I  have  reckoned  it  over  and 
over  again,  and  he  can't  get  back  till  Saturday. 
It's  all  along  of  that  jury  business,  you  see  ; 
and,  if  Lindy  chooses  to  come  over  with  the 
children  on  Thanksgiving  day,  who's  to  hen- 
der  ? "  inquired  the  dame,  with  the  anxious 
wrinkles  deepening  in  her  forehead. 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  pair  of  pegged 
shoes  hobbling  over  the  hard  path,  and  Jerry 
darted  off  through  the  shed,  and  loped  away 


140  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

across  country  as  the  bee  flies.  The  dame 
gave  a  guilty  little  start,  and  turned  around,  to 
find  herself  face  to  face  with  an  old  crone,  much 
bent  in  body,  with  bright  black  eyes  peering 
out  from  a  scoop  bonnet,  and  the  bulge  of  a 
basket  showing  under  a  camlet  cloak. 

"  Sakes  alive !  it's  Goody  Hinman,"  said  she 
briskly,  feigning  a  welcome  she  scarcely  felt ; 
"  and  the  cold  darting  Jike  pins  and  needles.  I 
didn't  look  for  you  to-day,  Goody,"  she  added, 
opening  the  house-door,  "  but  your  thanksgiv 
ing  turkey  is  ready  all  the  same." 

"'  Don't  talk  as  if  I  had  come  a  begging,  Bar 
berry  Ford,"  responded  the  old  woman  sharply, 
setting  her  cane  down  upon  the  floor  with  an 
emphatic  little  thump,  "for  I  mind  when  you 
was  nobody  but  Barberry  Ford,  a  poor  sempstress 
girl ;  and  folks  thought  you  was  doing  mighty 
well  to  ketch  the  Squire  with  your  purty  face. 
I've  come  to  see  the  old  man,"  she  piped  out  in 
a  cracked  treble.  "  He  has  hardened  his  heart 
and  stiffened  his  neck,  as  Scriptur'  says  ;  but 
Goody  Hinman  aint  afeard  of  him.  They  didn't 
tell  me  that  Lindy's  husband  was  dead.  They 
never  do  tell  the  deef  old  creatur'  any  thing. 
But  I  found  it  out  ;  and  she  left  poor,  with  a 


The  Old  Squire 's  Wrath.  141 

pack  of  children  to  keep.  Now  at  Thanksgiving 
the  sons  and  daughters  are  coming  home  to 
feast  and  be  merry ;  but  there's  nobody  to  think 
of  poor  Lindy  but  old  Goody  Hinman.  You 
wouldn't  have  it  so,  Barberry  Ford,  if  you  had 
a  grain  of  sperit ;  but  the  Fords  never  had  the 
spunk  of  a  louse.  I  know  them  all,  from  Tavern 
Billy  down." 

"  The  Squire  has  gone  from  home  !  "  screamed 
Dame  Northrup,  coloring  violently  and  biting 
her  thin  lips. 

"  That's  just  what  I  did  say,"  retorted  old 
Goody  snappishly,  nodding  her  head  as  she 
settled  into  an  easy-chair  by  the  blazing  hearth, 
and  let  the  black  scoop  fall  away  from  her  wide- 
bordered  cap.  "The  Fords  never  had  the 
spunk  of  a  louse  ;  and,  if  you  hadn't  knuckled 
to  the  old  Squire,  it  might  have  been  better  for 
poor  Lindy." 

"  None  so  deaf  as  them  that  wont  hear,"  mur 
mured  the  dame,  in  no  pleasant  humor,  as  she 
stepped  back  to  the  table,  covered  with  a  maze 
of  butter,  and  eggs,  and  spices,  and  preserve- 
pots,  and  flaky  pies  just  rescued  from  the  oven, 
and  others,  rarely  jiggled  and  ornamented, 
standing  ready  to  take  their  places. 


142  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

At  that  moment  Betsy  Bingle  issued  from 
the  cellar-way.  She  was  a  lean  lass,  with  pro 
truding  "  shovel "  teeth,  and  a  propensity  to  hold 
her  mouth  wide  open  and  listen  to  every  word 
that  was  said,  to  the  great  detriment  of  her 
work,  at  the  same  time  that  she  grew  singularly 
limp  when  she  was  "  beat "  or  "  struck  "  in  her 
mind,  or  fell,  as  she  said,  into  a  "  quanderary." 

Betsy  bore  in  her  hand  the  old  lady's  thanks 
giving  turkey,  which  Goody's  sharp  eyes  no 
sooner  spied  than  she  let  fall  a  live  coal  she  had 
drawn  out  from  the  fire  with  a  pair  of  tongs  to 
light  her  short  pipe,  and  seized  upon  it  with 
avidity. 

"  It  don't  heft  as  much  as  last  year's,  not  by 
two  pounds,"  muttered  she,  ducking  and  raising 
the  fowl  by  its  long,  stiff  legs  ;  "  and  there  don't 
look  to  be  a  mossle  of  fat  on  the  breast-bone." 

However,  the  bird  went  into  Goody's  basket, 
and  was  carefully  covered  up  with  a  series  of 
chocolate-tinted  cloths  ;  and,  scenting  pot-pie 
for  dinner  with  a  nose  as  sharp  as  her  tongue, 
she  settled  herself  comfortably  in  her  great, 
roomy,  splint-bottomed  chair,  and  let  the  blue 
smoke  curl  in  little  thin  wreaths  about  her 
head. 


The  Old  Squire's  Wrath.  143 

It  was  the  morning  of  Thanksgiving  Day — as 
Novemberish  a  morning  as  you  would  wish  to 
see,  with  a  bitter  wind  blowing,  and  the  pale 
sun  wading,  as  it  were,  through  drifts  of  snow. 
The  Squire's  wife  looked  out  over  frost-bitten 
fields  to  the  edging  of  timber  land,  where  a  few 
warm  colors  still  burnt  like  dying  embers 
against  a  background  of  evergreens,  and  then 
went  back  from  the  rating  panes  to  stir  the 
fire  into  brighter  sparkles. 

Betsy  Bingle  was  "  struck  "  with  the  idea  that 
she  had  never  before  seen  her  mistress  in  such 
a  "  twitter,"  and  so  long  as  the  handmaid  re 
mained  in  suspense  concerning  the  cause  of  the 
flurry  she  was  totally  incapable  of  exertion. 
Truth  to  tell,  the  dame  had  brisked  up  wonder 
fully  since  the  old  Squire's  departure,  from  the 
meeching,  timorous,  submissive  creature  she 
was  in  his  presence.  A  soft,  fluttering  rose- 
color  had  come  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes 
looked  bright  and  moist. 

Two  great  turkeys  were  roasting  before  the 
fire,  and  their  unctuous  drippings  fizzed  and 
sputtered  down  into  the  pan.  There  were 
loads  of  good  things  on  the  buttery  shelves, 
and  the  dame  was  ornamenting  the  biggest 


144  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours. 

plum-cake  with  frosting,  krissing  it,  crossing 
it,  dabbing  it,  and  patting  it,  and  quirking 
her  old  head  this  way  and  that,  like  an  aged 
robin. 

"  It's  almost  time  they  were  here,"  said  she, 
skipping  to  the  window  again,  as  if  she  had  no 
more  than  turned  sixteen. 

"  Do  you  expect  many  of  'em  ? "  inquired 
Betsy,  putting  in  a  question  at  random,  and  let 
ting  some  of  the  egg  she  was  beating  slip  off  into 
her  lap  in  a  little  white  pool. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  dame,  with  her  cap 
turned  awry  in  a  very  rakish  manner,  and  the 
specs  just  ready  to  fall  from  the  tip  of  her  nose, 
while  she  counted  upon  her  knobby  old  fingers, 
"  One,  two,  three.  .Yes,  Betsy,  there's  eight  of 
them." 

"  My  suds  !  "  exclaimed  Betsy,  "  what  a  raft ! 
You  never  had  more  than  the  parson  and  his 
wife,  or  Deacon  Hill's  folks." 

"  Some  of  them  are  little  teenty-tots,"  she 
went  on,  speaking  gleefully,  almost  as  if  she 
had  lost  Betsy's  words  ;  "  and  to  think  that  I, 
their  grandmother — " 

"  Stars  and  garters !  "  cried  Betsy,  with  a  jerk, 
letting  the  remaining  contents  of  the  platter 


The  Old  Squire's  Wrath.  145 

stream  down  her  dress.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
say,  Miss  Northrup,  you've  gone  and  asked 
your  daughter  Lindy  over  to  eat  thanksgiving 
dinner  ? " 

"  Mind  what  you  are  about,"  said  the  dame 
sharply. 

"  O,  luddy  !  them  sillybobs  has  gone  to  pot ! 
But  I  was  so  beat  with  the  news  that  I  couldn't 
hold  nothing — I  never  can  when  I'm  scart. 
Now,  Miss  Northrup,  I  wouldn't  have  thought 
you'd  dast  to  do  it,  the  old  Squire  is  such  a 
tearer.  And  who  knows  but  he  might  pop  in 
unexpected  ? " 

"  You  let  your  tongue  run  too  free,  Betsy 
Bingle,"  said  the  old  lady,  bridling  a  good  deal 
for  her  ;  "  and  you  pay  too  little  heed  to  your 
work.  There,  you  have  spoiled  my  custards  ! — 
all  for  gabbling  about  something  that  don't  con 
cern  you." 

"  Mebbe  I  do  gabble,"  returned  Betsy,  who 
was  not  above  answering  back.  "  But  I  always 
heard  before  I  come  here  to  live  that  the  old 
Square's  folks  was  mortal  'fraid  of  him,  and  I 
guess  when  he  hears  Lindy's  been  home  he'll 
make  the  house  hot." 

"  Go  up  garret,  Betsy,"  said  the  dame,  quickly 


1 46  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

losing  sight  of  her  anger  in  a  mingled  throng 
of  memories,  poignantly  sweet  and  sad,  "  and 
bring  down  the  two  high  chairs  that  belonged 
to  the  twins  I  lost.  I  never  could  bear  to  see 
them  around  after  that.  And  you  may  fetch 
Lindy's  little  rocker.  The  Square  brought  it 
home  to  her  one  day  from  the  village,  and  I 
never  did  see  a  little  creeter  so  tickled.  We 
must  have  a  heap  of  nuts  from  the  store-cham 
ber,  Betsy  ;  and  the  best  apples  in  the  cellar — 
pearmains  and  pippins — I  recollect  Lindy  liked 
them.  And  put  down  a  great  pitcher  of  cider 
to  warm  on  the  hearth,  for  they'll  be  chilled  to 
the  marrer  in  this  raw  wind." 

Betsy  clattered  off  to  do  her  bidding,  and  the 
Squire's  wife  had  just  slipped  into  an  old-fash 
ioned,  stand-alone  silk,  and  perched  a  wonder 
ful  cap  on  top  of  her  head,  with  little  gauzy  bows 
that  looked  like  distracted  butterflies,  when  a 
prodigious  clatter  arose  at  the  door,  the  cheer 
ing  of  little  voices,  the  thumping  of  little  sturdy 
hands  and  feet.  And  amid  all  the  din  could  be 
distinguished  the  cry  of  "  Grandma's  house  !  " 

The  dame  ran  to  open  it,  with  an  indescrib 
able  pucker  in  her  old  face,  something  between 
laughing  and  crying ;  and  there  tumbled  in  a 


The  Old  Squire 's  Wrath.  147 

heap  of  little  sturdy,  chubby  boys,  who  had  out 
run  mother,  and  the  girl-baby,  and  Jakey,  who 
had  had  the  rickets  and  was  weak  and  uncer 
tain  in  his  legs.  Grandma  made  her  arms  as 
wide  as  she  possibly  could  to  take  them  all  in  ; 
and  yet  they  seemed  to  spill  out  and  run  over, 
like  rosy-cheeked  apples  tumbling  from  an 
apron. 

In  a  moment  more  a  worn  woman  was  stand 
ing  on  the  threshold,  looking  at  the  first  glance 
even  older  than  the  dame.  She  wore  a  shabby 
bonnet  and  thin  old  shawl,  under  which  peeped 
the  blue  eyes  of  a  very  placid  baby.  No  wonder, 
remembering  how  she  had  gone  out  from  the 
old  home  years  before,  that  Linda  should  have 
broken  down  and  sobbed  on  her  mother's  neck. 
It  seemed  to  impart  a  singular  and  unwonted 
degree  of  courage  and  strength  to  the  old  woman 
to  see  Linda  give  up — Linda,  who  had  always 
been  as  high-strung  and  obstinate  as  the  old 
Squire  himself. 

She  led  her  forward  to  a  seat  by  the  warm 
fire,  and  put  her  feet  to  toast,  and  untied  the 
crumpled  bonnet,  and  let  her  old  hand  stray 
over  the  thin  hair,  turning  gray  now,  and 

touched  the  lined  and  faded  cheek,  murmuring 
10 


148  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

soothing  words,  just  as  if  she  had  consoled  and 
comforted  people  all  her  life  long. 

Linda's  little  boys,  in  spite  of  their  old  shoes, 
that  seemed  to  snicker  with  funny  holes,  and 
the  knees  of  their  trowsers  patched  three  deep, 
and  their  little  taily  jackets,  made  out  of  old, 
did  not  allow  any  such  trifles  to  damp  their 
spirits.  They  knew  all  about  grandma's  house 
from  their  mother's  stories,  and  the  awe  and 
mystery  surrounding  grandpa  did  not  diminish 
its  fascinations.  Now  it  seemed  as  though  a 
gleesome  army  of  elves  had  broken  into  the 
still  old  dwelling,  and  were  capering  over  the 
wall  and  cutting  didoes  on  the  brown  rafters. 
There  was  a  glorious  hubbub,  and  the  bright 
faces  of  the  geraniums  in  the  sitting-room  win 
dows  seemed  to  nod  out  approvingly  at  the  bleak 
weather,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  This  is  jolly  ;  we 
like  it  hugely."  The  little  boy  who  had  had  the 
rickets,  and  couldn't  romp  with  the  others 
because  his  legs  were  weak,  sat  in  a  small  chair 
on  the  hearth  ;  and  when  some  extra  piece  of 
fun  was  up  he  would  clap  his  little  transparent 
hands,  held  on  by  nothing  but  "  pipe-stems," 
as  grandma  said,  and  shrill  out  "  Hurray ! " 
at  the  top  of  his  feeble  lungs. 


The  Old  Squire  's  Wrath.  149 

The  placid  baby  lay  toasting  on  a  quilt  in 
front  of  the  fire,  with  one  ear  growing  as  pink 
as  a  shell,  while  Linda  went  about  touching  the 
old  familiar  things  softly  with  her  hand.  At  last, 
when  she  came  to  the  Squire's  desk,  with  his 
well-worn  leather-covered  chair  before  it,  and  his 
plucky-looking  old  work-day  hat  and  coat  hang 
ing  above,  she  knelt  down  and  hid  her  face  in 
the  cushions  of  the  seat. 

"  Don't,  Lindy,"  whispered  the  dame,  bend 
ing  over  her.  "  Try  to  forget  it  to-day,  deary." 

"  I  can't,  mother,"  was  the  broken  reply. 
"  He  was  always  good  to  me  before  that  hap 
pened,  and  I  love  him  just  the  same." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  was  the  answer ;  "  he  set  great 
store  by  you,  Lindy,  for  he  said  you  had  the 
spirit  of  the  Northrups.  There  wasn't  much 
mother  in  you,"  and  the  dame  sighed  and 
whisked  away  a  tear. 

Betsy  Bingle,  arrayed  in  her  Sunday  gown, 
with  an  astonishing  yellow  bow,  which  gave  her 
the  appearance  of  being  pinned  to  a  ticket,  had 
as  much  as  she  could  do  to  attend  to  what  she 
called  the  boy's  "  shindys." 

"Why  don't  you  shut  your  fly-trap,  Miss 
Bingle?"  said  Seth,  the  biggest  boy — whom 


150  Stories  for  L  eisure  Hours. 

she  considered  head  "  skezecks  " — as  the  open 
ness  of  her  countenance  became  more  and  more 
apparent. 

"You're  a  sassy  boy,  and  don't  mind  your 
manners,"  returned  Betsy,  with  a  snap ;  but, 
for  all  that,  she  laughed  until  the  great  brown 
turkey  nearly  slipped  off  the  platter  she  was 
carrying. 

O,  I  wonder  if  a  dinner  before  or  since  ever 
looked,  smelt,  or  tasted  as  gloriously  as  that 
dinner  did  to  the  sharp  senses  of  Linda's  little 
boys  ?  It  overflowed  the  big  claw-footed  din- 
ing-table,  and  went  meandering  away  on  side 
board  and  ancient  half-round,  in  pies,  and  pud 
dings,  and  shaking  jellies. 

"  Hadn't  I  better  keep  on  the  watch,  marm,  for 
fear  the  old  Squire  should  pop  in  ? "  whispered 
Betsy,  coming  to  the  back  of  the  old  lady's 
chair,  where  she  sat  with  her  eyes  blurring 
at  sight  of  the  row  of  little  expectant  faces 
opposite,  and  Linda  in  her  old  place. 

"  Go  along,  Betsy  Bingle,  and  take  the  baby," 
said  the  dame.  "  Don't  be  pestering,  to  spoil 
the  comfort  of  this  one  day,"  she  added  in  a 
lower  tone.  And  after  that  I  think  they  all 
forgot  the  existence  of  the  Squire,  even  though 


The  Old  Squire 's  Wrath.  1 5 1 

his  coat  and  stick  seemed  to  menace  them  from 
the  wall. 

How  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  of  the  way  that 
dinner  was  eaten,  of  the  fun  and  the  frolic. 
How,  when  each  of  the  little  lads  had  a  big 
plateful  of  turkey  before  him,  a  snicker  ran 
along  the  line ;  and,  being  reproved  for  it,  how 
they  declared  it  had  snickered  itself.  How 
they  stood  themselves  up,  and  shook  themselves 
down,  and  began  bravely  all  over  again,  until, 
when  the  great  plum-cake  was  brought  on,  the 
weakly  one  got  up  on  his  shaky  little  pins,  and 
cheered  out  sweet  and  shrill  until  the  others 
all  joined  in,  and  grandma  made  a  time  of  wiping 
her  old  eyes. 

At  last  they  were  down  on  the  hearth,  crack 
ing  nuts  and  toasting  apples,  and  Seth  had 
pulled  the  old  Squire's  hat  and  coat  off  the  hook 
to  play  wolf  in,  and  was  chasing  Ben  down  a 
long  side  passage,  when  the  breathless  lad  ran 
into  a  remarkably  sturdy  pair  of  old  legs. 

"  Get  along  with  your  apple-cart,"  cried  he, 
just  as  independent  as  a  top  wood-sawyer ; 
and  the  next  moment  something  big  and  gruff 
collared  him,  and  shook  him  smartly,  and  he 
looked  up  into  a  stern  old  face,  fringed  with 


152  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

white  hair,  surmounting  a  shaggy  top-coat  and 
muffler. 

"  Who  be  you,  sauce-box  ? "  growled  a  voice 
from  the  depths  of  the  muffler. 

"  Ben  Mason,"  said  the  boy  promptly,  look 
ing  up  with  his  frank  eyes,  as  if  proud  of  the 
name. 

The  next  moment  he  was  whirled  into  a  cor 
ner,  and  a  terrible  footstep  went  clumping  down 
the  passage. 

"  Massyful  Peter !  the  old  Squire  has 
popped,"  screamed  Betsy  ;  and  she  let  the  baby 
fall  just  as  the  door  burst  in,  revealing  a  white 
face  quivering  with  passion.  The  blessed  little 
thing  set  up  an  opportune  squall,  and  the 
mother  snatched  it  to  her  bosom  and  hid  her 
face  on  its  downy  head,  and  the  sturdy,  manly 
little  lads  gathered  about  her,  as  if  they  meant 
to  make  a  wall  between  mother  and  harm. 

"  So  you  came  sneaking  back,  did  you," 
cried  the  Squire,  half-choked  with  rage,  and 
at  the  same  time  pointing  to  her  with  his  long, 
tremulous  ringer,  "as  soon  as  my  face  was 
turned  ?  I  didn't  think  you'd  do  it,"  he  added, 
with  bitter  irony.  "  I  had  more  respect  for  you." 
"  Don't  blame  her,"  cried  the  old  wife,  run- 


The  Old  Squire's  Wrath.  153 

ning  and  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  I 
begged,  and  besought,  and  plead  with  her  to 
come,  because  it  has  all  been  kept  from  the 
children,  and  I  wanted  them  to  feel  there  was 
a  welcome  for  them  in  the  old  place  on  Thanks 
giving  day  once  before  I  died." 

"  You  dared  to  do  it ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
tone  of  unmitigated  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  Henry,"  and  the  old  woman  straight 
ened  up  and  met  his  eye  without  any  break  in 
her  voice.  "  I  was  always  afraid  of  you.  You 
made  me  so  the  first  day  we  were  married  ;  but 
mother-love,  they  say,  is  as  strong  as  death.  It 
makes  even  such  a  poor  creature  as  me  brave. 
I  couldn't  have  seen  Lindy  and  her  innocent 
children  suffer  if  I'd  died  for  helping  them  ;  for 
aint  they  bone  of  my  bone  and  flesh  of  my 
flesh  ? "  she  cried,  breaking  into  homely,  touch 
ing  pathos. 

As  the  old  woman  gained  in  courage,  with 
her  face  warming  and  glowing,  the  old  man 
seemed  to  lose  strength  almost  as  if  he  had  re 
ceived  a  shock.  The  conflict  of  emotions,  sur 
prise,  and  bitter  anger  appeared  to  age  him 
suddenly.  He  looked  haggard  and  feeble,  and 
groped  about  for  a  chair ;  and  then  he  sat 


154  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

down,  and  let  his  white  head  fall  upon  his 
hand. 

"  We  must  go  away ,"  sobbed  Linda ,  as  soon 
as  she  could  speak.  "After  these  long,  hard 
years  he  hasn't  a  kind  word  to  offer  me,  any 
more  than  if  I  was  a  stone." 

The  dazed  children  huddled  closer  together, 
and  Seth  put  his  arm  around  her  waist. 
"  Nobody  shall  touch  my  mother,"  said  he, 
hotly  ;  "  let  'em  try,  if  they  darst  to  do  it." 

It  was  the  clear  Northrup  ring  ;  and  the  old 
Squire  must  have  thought  so,  for  he  looked 
up.  , 

"  You  can't  let  'em  go  out  into  the  cold  and 
storm,"  (for  it  was  snowing  now  in  angry  spits, 
and  the  sour  day  had  grown  sourer  toward 
evening,)  pleaded  the  dame.  "  You  haven't  the 
heart  to  see  your  own  born  child  go  out  of  the 
old  door  in  bitter  weather,  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms  and  a  sick  boy  ahold  of  her  skirts.  I 
know  you  too  well,  Henry  Northrup.  You 
can't  hold  such  a  grudge  now  that  Ben  is  dead 
and  buried  ;  and  on  this  day,  when  the  Lord's 
mercies  bid  us  forget  and  forgive." 

The  old  man  backed  round  away  from  the 
light. 


The  Old  Squire's  Wrath.  155 

"  I  'spose  she  is  ready  now  to  say  she's  sorry 
for  marrying  that  vagabones,"  he  muttered,  as 
if  to  the  wall. 

"  No,  never !  "  cried  Linda,  starting  up.  "  I 
should  shame  the  old  Northrup  spirit  if  I  did 
injustice  to  poor  Ben,  lying  in  his  cold  grave. 
There  was  bad  luck  all  along,  but  he  never 
spoke  a  cross  word  ;  and  when  trouble  came  he 
took  the  half  of  every  burden.  Love  helped  us 
to  bear  it  all." 

She  broke  down  worse  than  ever  ;  but  by  and 
by,  as  the  Squire  kept  silence,  with  that  bowed 
look  upon  him,  she  crept  nearer  to  his  chair, 
and  somehow  got  into  the  circle  of  his  arm, 
and  laid  her  wet  cheek  and  faded  hair  against 
his  breast. 

"  Say  you  forgive  me,"  she  whispered.  "  I 
can  go  away  and  work  for  my  little  ones.  I 
don't  dread  any  thing  that  can  happen  ;  only  a 
father's  wrath  has  weighed  so  heavy  these  many 
years." 

The  old  man's  head  went  lower  and  lower, 
and  at  last,  when  there  was  a  sweet,  solemn 
hush  over  the  room,  and  Betsy  Bingle  was  cry 
ing  softly  in  the  fireplace,  he  looked  up  with 
that  altered  face,  that  had  aged  and  softened  so 


156  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

in  a  single  hour  of  deep  experience,  and  said  in 
that  new  way  of  referring  to  his  wife,  in  a  tone 
almost  querulous  and  childish  : 

"  Barbara,  why  don't  you  ask-  Lindy  and  the 
children  to  come  and  live  with  us  here  in  the 
old  place  ?  Aint  there  room  enough,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?  You  have  taken  it  all  upon  yourself, 
and  you  must  fix  things.  You  ought  to  have 
done  it  before,  Barbara ;  I  should  have  been  a 
better  man.  And  now,  is  there  time  for  God 
Almighty  to  have  mercy  on  a  hardened  sinner  ? " 

"  The  Lord  bless  you,  Henry,"  sobbed  the 
old  woman  ;  and  then  she  got  hold  of  his  hand, 
and  numbled  it,  and  kissed  it,  and  wet  it  all 
over  with  her  happy  tears.  But  presently  the 
lumps  cleared  out  of  her  throat,  and  she  cried 
with  almost  girlish  glee,  "  We  have  got  the 
children  home  again  in  our  old  age,  and  it 
minds  me  to  bless  God  for  the  sons  and  daugh 
ters  that  have  gone  back  to  old  homes  every 
where  on  this  Thanksgiving  Day." 

"  And  may  God  remember  those  that  are  left 
in  the  cold  away  from  mother's  love  and  father's 
pity,"  murmured  Linda. 

"  Hurray  ! "  cheered  the  little  weakly  boy, 
not  knowing  exactly  what  he  was  cheering 


The  Old  Squire's  Wrath.  157 

about;  but  it  had  the  force  of  Amen.  And 
there  was  the  white-haired  sire,  with  the  worn 
daughter  on  his  breast,  and  the  blissful  grand- 
dame,  and  the  little  rosy  children,  held  in  the 
sacred  bond  of  our  dear  old  Puritan  festival, 
where  the  spirit  of  peace  and  love  had  turned 
the  wrath  of  man  to  praise. 


158  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 


WIDOW  HENDERSON'S  HAPPENINGS. 


NOCK,  knock,  knock,  three  times,  and 
sharp  too,  upon  the  deal  door  which 
opened  from  the  shady  porch. 

"  I'm  coming  in  just  one  minute."  The 
voice  that  called  out  was  pleasant  and  musical, 
and  it  made  Aleck  Gay's  heart  beat  as  no  other 
could. 

There  was  a  little  scramble  within,  and  the 
noise  of  a  whimpering  child ;  then  the  door 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Hetty  Henderson  stood  hold 
ing  the  knob.  She  was  snug  and  tidy,  round 
and  plump,  though  a  little  under  size.  Her 
hair  was  a  rich  auburn,  of  that  smooth  and 
tractable  kind  which  never  gets  out  of  order. 
Her  face  was  deliciously  fair  and  rosy,  or 
would  have  been  but  for  a  trace  of  weariness 
about  the  temples ;  and  her  eyes,  of  a  warm  hazel, 
would  have  brimmed  over  with  smiles  had  not 
the  white  lids  drooped  a  little  from  want  of 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.        159 

sleep.  As  she  stood  there,  so  unconsciously 
good  and  lovely,  Aleck  gave  her  a  look  of 
adoration. 

"  O,  it's  you,  Aleck  ! "  she  said,  simply. 

"  Yes,  Hetty.  I  was  going  past  on  my  way 
to  Buxton,  and  I  thought  I'd  let  my  horse  bait 
long  enough  to  inquire  how  you  all  are,  and 
what  has  happened  last ;  for  you  know,  Hetty, 
something  is  always  happening  to  you." 

Mrs.  Henderson  let  go  the  door  and  gave  a 
laugh  that  sounded  like  the  gurgle  of  a  brook 
or  the  warble  of  a  bobolink,  or  whatever  is 
sweetest,  only  there  was  an  under-tone  of 
pathos  in  it,  like  a  half  sob,  that  went  straight 
to  Aleck's  heart. 

"  Well,  it  beats  all,"  said  she.  "  I'm  getting 
my  name  up ;  but  something  has  happened, 
sure  enough,  this  time.  You  know  I  was  say 
ing,  just  after  that  insurance  company  failed 
and  refused  to  pay  the  money  on  poor  Willie's 
life,  the  next  thing  to  come  along  would  be 
sickness.  It  was  about  time  one  of  the  children 
got  down  with  something,  and,  sure  enough,  last 
Wednesday  Ben  was  taken  with  the  measles. 
He  is  as  cross  as  two  sticks,  and  I  was  up  all 
last  night  giving  him  drink,  and  every  hour  I 


160  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

expect  Hetty  and  Jane  will  come  down,  and  my 
employer  over  in  Buxton  is  hurrying  me  about 
those  vests  ;  but  I've  been  wonderfully  helped 
through  it  all ; "  and  the  blithe  laugh  came 
again,  so  gay  and  glad  it  almost  brought  the 
tears  into  Aleck's  eyes. 

"  What  a  woman  you  are  for  looking  on  the 
bright  side  !  "  said  he.  "  A  body  would  think, 
to  hear  you  talk,  every  time  a  trouble  comes 
along  that  you  had  fallen  heir  to  a  first-class 
fortune." 

"  I  should  be  pretty  rich  if  that  was  so,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Henderson,  "  for  something  or 
other  is  always  happening.  I'm  one  of  the  sort 
the  Bible  speaks  of — prone  to  trouble  as  the 
sparks  are  to  fly  upward.  And  yet  I  ought  not 
to  say  that  either,  for  I  am  wonderfully  helped 
along." 

"  There's  more  practical  religion  in  your  little 
finger,"  said  Aleck,  admiringly,  "  than  in  the 
rest  of  the  folks  put  together.  But  I  guess  I'll 
step  in  and  take  a  chair,  Hetty.  It's  as  cheap 
sitting  as  standing  any  time." 

The  visitor  walked  into  Mrs.  Henderson's 
small  sitting-room. 

Overhead  her  little  girls  were  playing  at  old 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.       16 1 

folks'  tea-party,  with  broken  dishes,  and  were 
having  a  very  prim,  formal,  grown-up  sort  of 
time.  The  door  was  open  into  the  bedroom, 
where  the  sick  boy  lay,  and  he  now  raised  a 
half-disconsolate  moan,  for  his  mother  to  come 
and  cool  the  hot  pillow,  and  give  him  a  drink  of 
the  slippery-elm  tea  which  stood  on  the  little 
stand  by  his  side. 

Aleck  took  off  his  hat,  and  wiped  his  fore 
head  with  a  generous  red  silk  handkerchief.  He 
had  a  compact,  well-shaped  head,  covered  with 
crisp  and  curling-locks,  a  mottled,  good-humored 
face,  and  when  he  smiled  his  mouth  seemed  full 
of  white  teeth.  He  was  a  little  inclined  to 
stoutness,  and  his  neck-tie  and  waistcoat  were 
not  quite  to  Hetty's  taste,  and  his  trowsers 
showed  rather  too  large  and  pronounced  a  plaid. 
Aleck  was  rather  found  of  country  balls  and 
junketings.  He  liked  a  horse  that  held  its 
head  up  and  stepped  out,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  was  not  partial  to  long  sermons.  In 
the  country  neighborhood  where  he  lived  Aleck 
was  considered  a  worldly  man,  clinging  to  the 
typical  rags  of  self-righteousness.  The  parson 
made  him  a  subject  of  prayer,  and  preached 
directly  at  him  from  the  pulpit ;  but  still  Aleck 


1 62  Stories  for  Leisure  Horns. 

believed  in  the  good  things  of  this  life,  and 
never  made  professions  of  religion,  much  to  the 
sorrow  of  Hetty  Henderson,  who  was  a  strict 
Church-member,  and,  in  spite  of  a  conscience 
morbidly  tender,  was  filled  with  true,  sweet 
heart  piety. 

The  little  sitting-room  was  quite  homely,  but 
some  of  the  charm  of  Hetty's  personality  seemed 
to  cling  about  it,  making  it  a  veritable  paradise 
in  Aleck's  eyes.  The  windows  were  draped 
with  morning-glories  and  scarlet  runners. 
There  was  a  chintz-covered  lounge,  and  a 
variety  of  splint-bottomed  chairs  with  gay 
patchwork  cushions.  In  the  pleasantest  corner, 
by  the  south  window,  where  there  came  wafts 
of  the  fragrance  that  is  always  floating  about 
in  summer-time,  and  the  speckled  shade  of 
boughs  and  hum  of  bees  and  song  of  birds, 
stood  Hetty's  sewing-machine.  It  was  bright 
and  polished,  and  looked  almost  alive — as  if  it 
could  go  alone.  Aleck  went  over  where  it  was 
and  sat  down  in  the  big  rocking-chair,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  the  case.  He  touched  it  with  rev 
erence,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  get  down 
on  his  knees  and  kiss  the  very  treadle.  There 
was  a  kind  of  poetry  about  the  mechanism  in 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.       163 

his  eye,  for  he  knew  all  the  brave,  patient  work 
it  had  performed,  and  the  thought  was  too  much 
for  him. 

"Confound  it,  Hetty!"  he  broke  forth  as 
Mrs.  Henderson  stepped  from  the  bed-room, 
"I  don't  know  how  I'm  going  to  stand  it  to  have 
you  work  as  you  do.  You  understand  how  it 
has  been  with  me  ever  since  we  were  children 
together.  I  wouldn't  speak  until  a  year  after 
poor  Will's  death." 

Hetty  turned  and  gave  him  a  pleading  look. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  he,  penitent  to  the  very 
toes  of  his  big  boots.  "  I'm  an  awkward,  clumsy 
fellow,  Hetty,  and  it's  just  like  me  to  tread  on 
a  flower  when  I  would  give  my  right  hand  to 
save  it.  But  you  know  how  I  have  always  felt 
since  we  went  to  school  together  and  ate  out  of 
the  same  luncheon-basket,  and  I  gathered  nuts 
and  wild  cherries  for  you  in  summer,  and 
dragged  you  up  hill  on  my  sled  in  winter. 
There  came  a  time,  Hetty,  when  you  told  me  you 
could  not  love  me,  and  I  never  blamed  you  for 
taking  Will.  He  was  worthier,  far  worthier, 
than  I.  I  tried  hard  not  to  envy  him,  even  when 
it  was  the  worst  with  me,  and  I  don't  say  but 

what  I  did  enjoy  life  some.     I'm  no  hypocrite, 
11 


164  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Hetty,"  he  went  on,  humbly,  "and  a  wrong 
word  will  slip  out  now  and  then  when  I  am 
angry.  I  am  sorry  for  it,  Hetty.  I  wish  I  was 
a  better  man,  and  I  know  you  could  make  me 
one.  I  don't  make  professions,  and  I  never 
have  signed  a  temperance  pledge,  because  I 
think  a  man's  character  is  pledge  enough 
against  his  making  a  beast  of  himself.  The 
pharisees  call  me  hard  names,  for  a  man's  repu 
tation  is  blasted  in  this  community  if  he  uses  a 
check-rein  and  occasionally  takes  a  glass  of 
hard  cider.  If  I  don't  make  any  pretense  to 
piety,  I'm  straighter  in  my  business  dealings 
than  some  round  here  that  do." 

Hetty  did  not  like  this  kind  of  talk,  and  her 
face  showed  it.  The  softness  departed,  and  a 
look  of  decision  and  character  came  in  its 
stead. 

"  Your  can't  clear  your  own  skirts,"  said  she, 
with  a  little  asperity,  "  by  throwning  blame  on 
professors  of  religion.  If  you  do  see  a  mote  in 
your  neighbor's  eye,  that  isn't  going  to  pluck 
the  beam  out  of  your  own  eye." 

Aleck  saw  he  had  upset  his  own  dish,  and  in 
wardly  groaned.  "  I  didn't  mean  that,  Hetty," 
he  broke  out.  "  I  know  I'm  a  miserable  sinner. 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.       165 

There  was  a  time  when  I  thought  I  should  be 
lost.  It  was  after  poor  Will  was  shot  in  the 
battle  of  the  Wilderness,  and  you  were  left  to 
struggle  on  alone,  and  I  saw  your  white  face 
before  me,  and  I  was  almost  crazy.  But  after 
a  year  or  two  it  seemed  to  me  I  might  begin 
to  hope.  I  thought  how  I  could  take  you  and 
the  children  home,  and  keep  trouble  and  want 
away,  and  just  live  and  breathe  to  make  you 
happy,  until  I  felt  sure  you  could  save  me  from 
selfishness  and  make  me  a  new  creature." 

Aleck  saw  a  little  flicker  in  Hetty's  face,  and 
it  induced  him  to  go  on  in  a  more  impassioned 
strain  of  pleading. 

"  I  sometimes  have  thought,  Hetty,"  said  he, 
"  that  my  love  for  you  is  kind  of  religious.  I 
can't  see  God,  but  I  can  see  his  goodness  shin 
ing  in  your  eyes.  There's  many  a  man  around 
her  who  expects  to  get  to  heaven  on  the 
strength  of  his  wife's  prayers.  If  I  was  hard 
pushed  to  say  what  there  is  in  me  that  deserves 
heaven,  I  should  have  to  confess  there's  noth 
ing  but  my  constant  love  for  the  best  woman 
in  the  world.  If  my  heart  was  laid  open  to  your 
pure  eyes,  you  would  see  how  all  that  is  good 
and  honest  in  me  goes  out  toward  you,  O, 


1 66  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

some  folks  can  steer  right  along  toward  heaven 
of  themselves  ;  they  are  strong  and  full  of 
faith.  Other  folks  must  have  something  to 
catch  hold  of — it  may  be  a  little  child's  hand, 
or  a  woman's  heart,  but  it  is  a  very  real  thing  ; 
and  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Hetty,  I  do  believe  you 
could  tow  me  right  along  into  glory." 

Aleck  was  not  quite  a  gentleman,  not  very 
refined  ;  but  the  yearning,  the  passion,  the  faith 
of  the  man  wrought  upon  his  face  and  made  it 
noble.  Hetty  would  have  been  less  than  woman 
had  she  remained  unmoved. 

"You  do  wrong,  Aleck,"  said  she,  gently, 
"to  put  a  poor,  erring,  weak  creature  in  the 
place  of  the  Creator.  Be  careful  that  you  do 
not  grieve  away  the  Spirit  of  God.  Your  heart 
is  set  on  the  things  of  this  world,  I  fear,  and  it 
'  is  your  duty  to  wait  more  faithfully  on  the 
means  of  grace." 

"  I  will  do  any  thing  on  earth  you  want  me 
to,  Hetty,"  Aleck  responded  with  alacrity.  "  I'll 
go  to  meeting  every  Sunday  if  you'll  let  me  sit 
beside  you  and  look  over  the  same  hymn-book. 
Ding  it  all,  I'll  turn  missionary  to  the  canni 
bals,  if  you  will,  and  go  off  to  Injy,  or  any  other 
place  where  they  eat  human  beefsteaks.  I 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.       167 

could  go  to  jail  with  you,  Hetty,  and  think  my 
self  a  happy  man." 

"You  make  light  of  serious  things,"  said 
Hetty,  very  gravely,  taking  up  the  hem  of  her 
apron  and  putting  it  together  in  little  folds. 
Then  she  happened  to  glance  out  of  the  win 
dow  at  the  yellow-wheeled  sulky,  which  was 
abominable  in  her  eyes.  Aleck's  sorrel  horse 
was  backing  in  the  thills,  impatient  for  the  ap 
pearance  of  his  master.  "  We  don't  think  alike, 
Aleck,"  she  continued,  looking  down  at  a  red 
stripe  in  the  carpet,  "and  I  fear  we  shall 
never  agree  on  the  most  important  things.  I 
know  how  large  and  generous  your  heart  is, 
and  prize  its  worth  ;  but  I  cannot  feel  it  is  right 
for  us  to  marry.  The  Bible  says,  'Be  ye  not 
unequally  yoked  with  unbelievers.'  I  shall  pray 
for  your  conversion,  as  I  have  been  doing  for  a 
long  time." 

Hetty's  voice  faltered,  and  Aleck  got  up  and 
broke  abruptly  into  the  middle  of  her  sentence. 
"  Don't  think  I'm  going  to  take  this  for  your 
final  answer,  Hetty.  There's  hope  as  long  as 
there's  life.  I  do  believe  you  love  me  a  little, 
way  down  deep  in  your  heart ;  and  if  I  was  a 
miserable  wretch  just  fit  for  the  hospital  or  poor- 


1 68  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

house,  you  would  think  it  your  duty  to  marry  me, 
and  take  up  your  cross  and  earn  my  support, 
for  your  soul's  good.  But  here  I  am,  a  great, 
strong  man  with  enough  and  to  spare,  ready  to 
lift  you  out  of  a  life  of  drudgery,  and  give  you 
every  comfort,  and  educate  the  children,  and 
love  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul  and 
strength,  and  you  will  persist  in  turning  me  off 
because  you  are  afraid  of  offending  the  Lord. 
I  don't  believe  the  Lord  is  offended  by  such 
things,  and  you  ought  to  follow  the  dictates  of 
your  heart." 

He  strode  to  the  door,  and  slammed  it  as  he 
went  out ;  and  Hetty,  whose  nerves  were  a  lit 
tle  shaky  from  watching  the  previous  night,  sat 
down  in  the  rocking-chair  and  buried  her  burn 
ing  face  in  her  hands.  Aleck  had  treated  her 
outrageously.  He  was  positively  brutal.  How 
dared  he  say  he  believed  she  loved  him  a  little 
down  deep  in  her  heart  ?  The  thought  of  the 
insult  she  had  received  made  the  tears  flow  and 
trickle  through  her  fingers.  Aleck  had  widened 
the  breach  between  them,  and  as  she  was  sure 
she  didn't  love  him,  there  was  no  apparent  need 
of  grieving  over  it.  She  knew  she  should  be 
wonderfully  helped,  for  she  always  was,  and  yet 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.       169 

somehow  she  felt  very  low-spirited  and  miser 
able.  There  was  a  great  pile  of  vests  to  stitch 
for  her  employer  at  Buxton,  and  the  work  must 
be  done  in  time,  even  though  her  head  did  ache 
and  her  eyes  blur  with  weariness. 

Aleck,  for  his  part,  threw  himself  into  the 
yellow  sulky,  and  gave  the  sorrel  horse  his 
head.  As  he  turned  away  from  the  little  red 
farm-house,  where  such  a  patient,  sweet  life  was 
being  lived,  he  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  himself 
because  he  was  so  prosperous'and  well  off,  with 
a  great  stock-farm  clear  from  debt,  the  best 
stone  house  in  the  township,  and  money  in 
bank.  He  was  disgusted  with  his  stout  limbs 
and  excellent  digestion.  If  he  had  been  born 
halt  or  blind,  Hetty  might  have  taken  him  home 
to  her  heart.  She  had  married  Will  Hender 
son,  he  felt  sure,  because  he  was  the  best  and 
unluckiest  fellow  in  the  world. 

The  hay  harvest  was  over,  and  the  fields  were 
smoothly  shorn.  Elms  by  the  wayside  seemed 
to  drip  with  golden  light.  The  cardinal-flower 
looked  at  its  splendid  image  in  the  lazy  little 
brook  that  flowed  along  coquetting  with  alders 
and  reeds.  There  were  good  farms  on  either 
side  the  way.  Aleck  crossed  the  covered  bridge 


170  Stories  for  Leistire  Hours. 

over  a  wide,  shallow  stream,  and  came  out  on  a 
bit  of  smooth  road  and  an  old  brown  barn  with 
doors  wide  open  abutting  almost  upon  the  track. 
Two  or  three  farmers  had  gathered  to  inspect  a 
horse  which  the  owner  of  the  place — a  tall, 
black-whiskered  man — in  his  shirt  sleeves,  had 
brought  out  from  the  stable.  A  passer-by  in  a 
light  democrat  wagon  slued  his  vehicle  round 
out  of  the  road,  and  stopped  to  observe  what  was 
going  on.  Aleck  did  the  same  with  his  yellow- 
wheeled  sulky,  for  his  instinct  scented  a  trade. 
The  animal  on  exhibition  was  a  tall  chestnut, 
clean-limbed,  with  a  shiny  satin  coat,  and  a  pecul 
iarly  wicked  eye, 

"  What  will  you  take  for  that  horse,  Bates  ?  " 
inquired  Aleck,  after  he  had  exchanged  nods 
with  the  neighbors. 

"Wa'al,  I  don't  know  just  what  I  would 
take.  I  vally  him  purty  high.  He's  a  nice 
horse,  but  he  aint  just  the  beast  to  work  on  a 
farm.  Now  if  you  want  to  swap  off  that  there 
sorrel  of  yours,  I  wouldn't  mind  giving  a  little 
boot." 

"  Come,  now,  out  with  it,  Bates  ;  let's  know 
what  ails  him !  Is  he  spavined,  or  broken- 
winded?" 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.       171 

"  No,"  said  one  of  the  old  farmers,  whose  face 
looked  like  a  carved  walnut,  at  the  same  time 
ejecting  a  liberal  shower  of  tobacco  juice,  "  he's 
as  sound  as  a  nut,  not  five  years  old,  but  you 
see  he's  got  a  leetle  touch  of  the  devil  in  him. 
Mebbe  for  a  week  he'll  go  along  as  steady  as  an 
old  cow,  and  then  he'll  take  a  notion  to,  kick 
and  stiffen  his  hind  legs  like  steel  crow-bars, 
and,  you'd  better  believe,  any  thing  that's  be 
hind  him  is  pretty  likely  to  be  sent  to  kingdom 
come.  When  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  run, 
a  chain  of  lightnin'  wouldn't  hold  him  ;  and 
every  now  and  then  he  breaks  his  headstall  all 
to  flinders,  and  chaws  up  his  grain-bin." 

"  You  needn't  make  it  out  worse  than  it  is," 
said  Bates  in  a  grieved  tone.  "  I  don't  kalker- 
late  to  deceive  any  body  about  this  here  animal. 
I  never  said  he  was  a  likely  animal,  and  I  aint 
a-going  to  have  a  neighbor,  after  he's  got  his 
neck  broke,  and  been  sot  on  by  a  crowner  and 
twelve  men,  come  and  prosecute  me  for  damages; 
but  if  he's  willing  to  trade,  knowing  all  the 
facts,  why,  that's  his  own  look-out." 

"  How  much  boot  will  you  give  ?  "  inquired 
Aleck,  laconically. 

"  Why,  for  that  there  sorrel  of  yours,"  said 


1 72  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Mr.  Bates,  "  I  wouldn't  mind  a  cool  hundred 
and  fifty  down,  or,  what's  the  same  thing,  a  check 
for  that  amount  on  Buxton  Bank." 

"  Agreed  !  "  returned  Aleck,  and  he  threw 
down  the  lines  and  sprang  out  of  the  sulky. 
"  Here,  untackle  my  horse  and  put  in  yours, 
and  then  we  will  go  over  to  the  house  and 
square  up  the  money  matters." 

Two  weeks  slipped  away,  and  the  Widow 
Henderson  saw  nothing  of  Aleck  Gay.  Things 
had  happened  all  along — not  the  brightest  and 
happiest  things,  but  smiles  still  shone  in  Hetty's 
eyes,  though  more  and  more  tremulous  with 
tears.  The  two  little  girls  had  fallen  sick  of 
measles,  and  the  disease  seemed  to  go  very  hard 
with  Jenny,  the  youngest,  the  baby  and  pet. 
Anxiety  and  constant  watching  had  worn  upon 
Hetty's  nerves,  and  some  of  the  work  for  her 
Buxton  employer  was  done  when  she  was  ready 
to  drop  to  sleep  over  the  machine.  One  parcel 
of  vests  had  already  found  their  way  back,  with  a 
sharp  note,  saying  the  stitching  did  not  give  satis 
faction,  and  must  be  done  over  ;  and,  worse  than 
all,  the  post  had  brought  her  an  official  document 
from  Washington,  with  the  information  that,  on 
account  of  some  irregularity  in  his  papers,  poor 


Widow  Henderson 's  Happenings.       1 73 

Will's  pension,  which  had  been  continued  to  his 
widow,  was  about  to  be  withdrawn.  It  might 
cost  more  time  and  money  than  she  had  to  spare 
to  get  the  claim  re-established.  The  old  farm 
house  where  she  lived  had  only  a  few  rather 
productive  acres  attached  to  it,  and  was  heav 
ily  mortgaged.  Hetty  had  depended  upon  the 
pension  to  keep  down  the  interest,  and  now 
there  was  a  bleak,  homeless  prospect  staring 
her  and  her  little  brood  in  the  face.  But  all  the 
time  she  knew  she  should  be  wonderfully  helped 
through  her  troubles.  The  thought  of  Aleck 
Gay — great,  generous-hearted  fellow — who  had 
loved  her  so  faithfully  long  years,  came  like  a 
warm,  sweet  suffusion,  and  burnt  upon  her  cheek 
in  a  hidden  blush.  Hetty  suspected  this  feel 
ing  was  a  temptation  in  disguise,  for  she  knew 
the  devil  has  a  very  ungentlemanly  way  of 
taking  advantage  of  a  woman's  weak  back  and 
tired  feet. 

Near  Hetty's  house  was  an  ugly,  steep  hill, 
with  more  pitches  and  shelving  banks  than  any 
other  in  half  a  day's  j  ourney.  That  same  after 
noon,  which  was  lowering  and  overcast,  an  old 
man  in  a  tow  frock  was  guiding  a  pair  of  oxen 
down  Long  Hill.  When  about  half-way  to  the 


1 74  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

bottom  his  bleary  old  eyes  took  note  of  some 
thing  ahead  which  looked  like  the  detached 
wheels  and  body  of  a  yellow  sulky.  His  slow 
senses  had  scarcely  made  this  observation  when 
he  came  upon  a  man,  hatless,  and  with  torn 
coat,  lying  among  some  loose  stones  a  little 
under  the  bank. 

"Why,  du  tell,  if  it  aint  Aleck  Gay !  " 

"It's  me,  sure  enough,"  groaned  Aleck. 
"  That  beast  of  mine  ran  away  and  smashed 
the  sulky  to  shivers.  I  hope  he  has  broken 
his  confounded  neck.  My  ankle  is  sprained, 
and  I  have  hurt  my  arm,  and  there  are  some 
scratches  on  my  face,  but  I  hope  my  bones  are 
all  right.  Come,  daddy,  give  me  a  lift  as  far  as 
the  Widow  Henderson's,  and  on  your  way  home 
you  may  stop  at  the  doctor's." 

Hetty  had  just  put  down  little  Jane,  after  a 
bad  coughing  fit,  when  there  came  a  confused 
and  ominous  sound  from  the  front  porch.  She 
ran  to  the  door,  and,  throwing  it  open,  called 
out,  in  a  tone  of  despair,  "  What  has  happened 
now?" 

"  It's  me,  Hetty,"  Aleck  answered  as  he  was 
being  helped  in.  "  I  met  with  an  accident  near 
here,  and  am  pretty  well  knocked  to  pieces,  and 


Widow  Henderson's  Happenings.       175 

I  thought,  seeing  how  it  is,  you  would  not  refuse 
to  take  me  in." 

Hetty  reeled  back  against  the  side  of  the 
passage-way  without  speaking,  and  turned  very 
pale.  Aleck  saw  the  look,  and  it  made  his 
heart  leap  up  in  his  throat,  although  he  was 
suffering  considerable  pain.  Soon  the  patient 
was  sitting  bolstered  up  in  a  rocking-chair, 
wrapped  in  a  blanket,  with  his  hurt  foot  on  a 
cushion  and  pillows  about  him.  Arnica,  cam 
phor,  lint,  and  bandages  were  quickly  brought ; 
Hetty  washed  the  blood  from  his  forehead  with 
a  very  tender  touch. 

"  Aleck,"  inquired  she  sympathetically,  "  don't 
you  think  it  would  do  you  good  to  have  a 
plaster  on  these  cuts  ? " 

"No,"  said  Aleck,  giving  a  prodigious  groan, 
"  it  aint  worth  while.  Only  if  you  would  stand 
there  and  hold  your  hand  on  my  head  a  few 
minutes,  it  would  draw  better  than  any  plaster 
in  the  world." 

"You  need  some  thing  warming  to  take  in 
wardly,  Aleck.  I  am  afraid  you  will  get  ex 
hausted  and  faint  away." 

"  No  " — and  he  gave  another  profound  sigh — 
"  but  if  you'll  sit  down  there,  where  I  can  look 


1 76  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours, 

at  you  handy,  it  will  do  me  more  good  than 
doctor's  stuff." 

Hetty  sat  down  accordingly,  and  as  the  pity 
grew  in  her  face, -hope  rose  in  the  breast  of 
Aleck. 

"  Do  you  think  your  leg  is  broken,  Aleck  ?  I 
am  so  sorry  for  your  sufferings.  The  pain  must 
be  intense." 

"  It  is  pretty  bad,"  answered  Aleck,  evasively, 
"and  I  can't  tell  just  what  has  happened  until 
the  doctor  comes.  I've  a  notion  it's  mostly  in 
ternal.  There  is  something  wrong  here,"  and 
he  put  his  hand  conspicuously  over  his  heart. 
"  I  don't  know  but  I'm  going  to  pieces.  One 
thing  is  certain  ;  I  never  shall  ride  in  that 
yellow  sulky  again.  It  may  be  all  day.  with 
me;"  and  then  came  another  dreadful  groan. 
"Hetty" — after  a  little  pause — "don't  you 
think  you  could  reconcile  it  with  your  sense 
of  duty  to  take  pity  on  me  ?  You  accept  mis 
fortunes  so  beautifully,  Hetty  ;  now  I  have  be 
come — a — a  kind  of  misfortune,  couldn't  you 
accept  me  ? " 

"  If  I  can  do  you  good,"  said  Hetty  timidly. 
"  It  would  seem  almost  providential.  Who  knows 
but  this  may  prove  a  means  of  grace  ? " 


Widow  Henderson  's  Happenings.       1 77 

"  It  will !  "  cried  Aleck  in  ecstasy.  He  quite 
forgot  to  groan,  and  with  his  sound  arm  he 
clasped  her  waist.  "  Hetty,  God  helping  me, 
this  shall  prove  the  best  thing  that  ever  hap 
pened  to  you." 


178  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours. 


HANNAH'S   QUILTING. 


ANN  AH  thought  she  knew  the  state  of 
Fred  Freeman's  heart.  She  had  trifled 
with  him  a  little,  and  her  own  mind  was  not 
quite  made  up. 

She  was  sitting  now  in  her  chamber,  sweet 
and  clean  with  whitewash  and  new  buff  paper, 
and  bowery  with  green  light  which  fell  from  the 
pear-tree  boughs  through  freshly-starched  mus 
lin  curtains.  Hannah  was  a  nice-looking 
blonde  maiden,  dressed  in  a  tidy  chocolate  print, 
with  a  blue  bow  nestling  in  her  thick,  wavy 
hair.  She  had  been  writing  a  note  by  the 
stand,  and  was  sealing  it  with  one  of  the  motto 
seals  then  in  fashion.  This  one  said,  "  Come  ; " 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  it  indorsed  a  note 
of  invitation. 

She  ran  down  stairs  into  the  fresh  morning 
air,  where  her  father,  Deacon  Ashley,  was  just 
ready  to  head  old  Charley  toward  the  village. 


Hannah 's  Quilting.  179 

Her  mother,  a  buxom  matron,  was  standing 
bare-headed  beside  the  democrat  wagon,  hand 
ing  up  the  molasses  jug,  and  charging  the 
Deacon  not  to  forget  that  pound  of  Castile 
soap  and  the  lamp-wicks.  Hannah  tucked  up 
her  trim  skirts,  and  ran  out  through  the  dewy 
grass. 

"  See  here,  father,"  she  called,  in  her  pleasant 
voice,  "you  must  stop  at  the  school-house  and 
give  this  note  to  Andy  Freeman.  It's  for  Jane, 
you  know,  asking  her  and  Miss  Lang  to  come 
to  the  quilting." 

"  Aint  there  one  for  Fred  Freeman,  too  ? " 
inquired  the  good-natured  old  Deacon,  with  a 
wink. 

"  I  told  Jane  he  could  come  in  the  evening 
if  he  chose,"  returned  Hannah,  with  slightly 
heightened  color.  "  Doctor  Bingham  will  be 
here,"  she  added,  "and  some  other  young 
men." 

"  Fred  Freeman  is  worth  the  whole  kit,"  re 
sponded  the  Deacon  ;  "and  that  young  pill-box, 
according  to  my  way  of  thinking,  runs  too  much 
to  hair-ile  and  watch-chains  ;  but  Fred  has  got 
good  hard  sense  and  first-rate  learning.  He 

can  appear  with  any  of  'em.     If  you  don't  look 
12 


1 80  Stories  for  Leistire  Hours. 

out,  Han,  he'll  be   shining  round  that  pretty 
girl  from  Hillsdale." 

"  It  makes  no  difference  to  me  who  he 
shines  round,"  returned  Hannah,  with  a  slight' 
shade  of  offense ;  but,  nevertheless,  there  was 
a  little  pang  at  her  heart  as  she  turned  back 
toward  the  house.  Hannah's  mind  was  not  quite 
easy  about  Jane  Freeman's  visitor,  the  pretty 
girl  from  Hillsdale,  but  she  thought  if  she 
could  see  Fred  and  Mary  Lang  together,  she 
would  know  in  just  what  quarter  the  wind  was 
setting. 

The  Deacon  tucked  the  note  into  his  breast 
pocket,  took  the  molasses  jug  between  his  feet, 
and  gave  old  Charley  a  cut  with  the  lines  pre 
paratory  to  making  him  begin  to  move,  an  op 
eration  of  some  length,  as  Charley  believed  the 
Deacon  to  be  under  his  orders.  At  last,  how 
ever,  the  two  were  trotting  and  rattling  past  the 
goose-pond,  and  the  big  barns,  and  the  tall  elms 
that  cast  some  very  cool  shadows  across  the 
brown  dust  of  the  road,  until,  with  a  kind  of 
mutual  understanding  and  sympathy,  they  came 
out  against  a  stretch  of  post  and  rider  fence, 
inclosing  a  field  of  the  biggest  kind  of  clover. 

It  looked  like  good  farming  to  the  Deacon's 


Hannah's  Quilting.  181 

eyes.  He  could  calculate  pretty  closely  the 
number  of  tons  of  sweet,  juicy  feed  there  would 
be  to  the  acre  ;  and  yet  this  morning  the  fra 
grance,  and  the  rosy  bloom  and  the  hum  of  in 
sects  among  the  thick  heads,  brought  him  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  pleasure. 

With  the  long  sight  of  age  he  could  see  the 
cows  grazing  in  the  back  pasture,  and  he 
thought  of  the  "  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills,"  and 
whose  they  are.  His  gaze  wandered  back  lov 
ingly  even  to  the  old  stone  walls  with  mulleins 
growing  beside  them,  and  the  shadows  of  birds 
flitting  over  them,  and  every  thing  seemed 
good,  even  the  May-weed,  and  daisies,  and 
Canada  thistles  that  farmers  hate  by  instinct. 
He  felt  a  gush  of  childlike  thankfulness,  be 
cause  "  the  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fullness 
thereof." 

Presently  the  Deacon  and  Charley  came 
across  a  group  of  school-children  —  brown, 
freckle-faced  little  urchins,  in  calico  shirts,  tow 
trowsers,  and  shilling  hats  much  the  worse  for 
wear.  Then  there  was  a  tall  red-headed  girl 
who  had  out-grown  all  the  tucks  in  her  dress, 
and  had  torn  her  apron  in  following  the  boys 
over  the  wall  after  a  chipmunk  ;  and  one  or 


1 82  Stories  for  Leisttre  Hours. 

two  little  tots,  with  very  flappy  sun-bonnets, 
whose  short  legs  would  not  allow  them  to 
keep  up.  They  all  carried  dinner-pails  and 
dog's-eared  spelling-books,  and  at  the  very  end 
of  the  string  there  was  a  low-spirited  yellow 
dog. 

"  Whoa !  "  cried  the  Deacon,  setting  his  two 
boots-soles,  which  resembled  weather-beaten 
scows,  against  the  dash-board,  and  pulling  in 
hard — an  operation  Charley  did  not  at  all  relish, 
although  he  at  last  yielded,  with  a  shake  of  his 
homely  head,  which  intimated  it  was  done  by 
special  favor,  and  could  not  be  repeated. 

"  Jump  in,  children  ! "  cried  the  good-natured 
old  man  ;  "  I'll  give  ye  a  lift  as  far  as  the  school- 
house.  Beats  all  how  much  little  shavers  think 
of  ketchin'  a  ride.  There,  don't  crowd,  boys. 
Let  the  girls  in  first,  and  mind  your  manners  ; " 
and  he  lifted  in  a  little  roly-poly  maid,  with  pin 
cushion  hands  and  a  very  suggestive  stain 
of  wild  cherries  around  her  dimpled  mouth,  and 
seated  her  on  the  buffalo  beside  him.  The  oth 
ers  all  tumbled  in  in  a  trice. 

"  Tears  to  me  I  wouldn't  eat  them  puckery 
things,"  said  the  Deacon  in  his  grandfatherly 
fashion,  pointing  to  some  suggestive  smears  on 


Hannah's  Quilting.  183 

the  little  maid's  high  gingham  apron.  "  They'll 
give  you  the  colic." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  child,  folding  her 
funny  little  hands  contentedly  in  her  lap. 
"  Sissy  had  the  measles  and  I  didn't,  and  my 
mother  said  I  might  have  the  colic  if  I  wanted 
to." 

The  Deacon  leaned  back  and  laughed,  and 
Charley  shook  his  ears  and  turned  up  at  him  an 
eye  of  mild  reproach. 

"  What  a  little  goose  you  are  ! "  said  a  bright- 
faced  boy,  who  had  been  very  much  squeezed  in 
the  legs,  and  had  just  administered  several  sharp 
punches  in  the  side  of  the  squeezer  as  he  leaned 
over  the  back  of  the  seat  to  pinch  the  little 
girl's  ear. 

"  Bless  me !  there's  Andy  Freeman,  and  I 
had  like  to  have  forgot  the  what-d'ye-call-it — 
billy-do — my  Hannah  sent  to  the  girls  up  at 
your  house." 

The  Deacon  veered  half  round  and  checked 
Charley,  who  by  this  time  began  to  consider 
the  whole  thing  disgusting,  especially  as  the 
low-spirited  dog  had  mixed  himself  up  with  his 
feet. 

"  This  must  be  it,"  he  went  on,  fumbling  in 


184  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

his  pocket.  "  You  see  I've  left  my  best  eyes  at 
home  ;  the  old  pair  I  carry  in  my  head  don't 
amount  to  much." 

Andy  took  the  folded  paper,  and  promised  to 
be  careful  of  it ;  and  by  the  time  Charley  and 
his  load  had  arrived  at  the  stone  school-house, 
which  looked  very  much  like  a  juvenile  peniten 
tiary,  the  schoolmistress  was  standing  in  the 
door  ringing  the  bell ;  and  the  children  scram 
bled  down  the  side  of  the  wagon  and  scampered 
off,  to  save  their  marks  for  punctuality. 

Jane  Freeman  had  been  busy  all  day  with  her 
friend  Mary  Lang,  the  pretty  girl  from  Hills- 
dale.  There  is  nothing  at  first  so  engrossing 
to  the  mind  of  a  country  girl  as  the  stylish 
clothes  of  her  city  visitor.  Mary  had  a  number 
of  fashionably-made  dresses,  and,  as  old  Mrs. 
Freeman  remarked,  she  had  got  the  "very 
latest  quirk"  in  her  pretty  hair.  She  was  a 
good-natured  girl,  and  had  let  Jane  cut  the 
pattern  of  her  visite  and  her  tabbed  muslin  cape, 
and  had  shown  her  just  how  to  do  the  captivat 
ing  twist.  Now  the  two  girls  were  bending  out 
of  the  sitting-room  window,  which  looked  upon 
the  orchard,  with  its  gnarled  boughs,  and  cool 
green  lights,  and  white  clover-heads  dropped 


Hannah's  Quilting.  185 

upon  the  grass  like  unstrung  pearls.  Fred  had 
come  up  from  the  garden,  and  was  leaning  on 
his  hoe-handle,  talking  to  them.  He  was  a 
muscular,  well-made  young  fellow  ;  and  the  fact 
that  he  had  once  passed  three  years  in  a  city, 
and  had  rubbed  off  his  rustic  b^shfulness,  told 
upon  him  well.  Now  there  was  a  half-quizzical, 
half-pleased  look  peeping  out  from  under 
his  drooped  eyelids  ;  and  old  Mrs.  Freeman, 
sitting  on  the  back  porch,  with  her  glasses  in 
the  fold  of  a  magazine  story,  and  the  toe  of  one 
of  her  husband's  socks  covering  her  knobby  fin 
ger-ends,  glanced  at  the  group,  and  thought  to 
herself  that  Mary  Lang,  with  all  her  finery, 
wouldn't  be  sorry  to  catch  Fred.  Then  at  the 
memory  of  Hannah  Ashley  there  came  a  little 
twinge  of  anxiety  ;  for  Hannah  was  her  prime 
favorite  ;  and,  after  the  manner  of  substantial 
matrons,  she  desired  her  boy  to  marry  a  practi 
cal  wife,  who  knew  how  to  cook  his  dinner  and 
make  him  comfortable.  The  sight  of  Mary 
Lang's  white  nerveless  hands,  with  their  pretty 
rings,  caused  the  old  lady  to  shake  her  head, 
and  mutter  something  about  "  dolls  and  pop 
pets." 

Andy  had  come  home  from  school,  and  had. 


1 86  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

let  the  low-spirited  dog  out  into  the  back  lot  to 
bark  at  the  hens  a  little  while  by  way  of  whole 
some  recreation.  He  was  preparing  to  go 
down  to  his  squirrel-trap  in  the  woods  ;  and  as 
he  sat  fussing  away  and  whistling  on  the  porch 
step,  suddenly  he  pulled  a  paper  out  of  his 
jacket  pocket,  and  scampered  off  with  it  to  the 
window. 

"  Here's  something  Deacon  Ashley  told  me 
to  give  you,  Sis.  He  called  it  a  billy." 

"  You  mean  a  William,"  put  in  Mary,  chuck 
ing  him  under  the  chin. 

"  Why  it's  nothing  but  that  advertisement  of 
Puffer's  Pills  the  Deacon  promised  father!  I 
thought  Hannah  would  be  sure  to  invite  us  to 
her  quilting,"  said  Jane  in  a  disappointed  tone 
"  Say,  Fred,  have  you  and  Han  been  quarrel 
ing  ? "  and  she  gave  him  a  provoking  little 
thrust,  such  as  sisters  are  wont  to  administer. 

Fred  turned  round  and  set  his  elbows  square 
ly  against  the  window-sill,  and  began  to  whistle 
low  to  himself. 

"  Let's  take  that  ride  over  to  Saddleback  Hill 
I  promised  to  give  you  to-morrow  afternoon, 
Mary,"  said  he,  veering  back  again  and  chew 
ing  a  stalk  of  grass." 


Hannah's  Quilting.  187 

Miss  Lang  expressed  herself  delighted  to 
take  the  ride  ;  and  every  body  appeared  satis 
fied  but  Jane,  who  now  would  have  no  oppor 
tunity  to  display  the  new  twist  to  the  girls 
before  Sunday. 

Hannah's  quilt  had  been  put  on  the  frames 
the  day  before,  up  in  the  spare  chamber — a  large 
apartment  with  a  carpet  in  Venetian  stripe,  a 
high-post  bedstead  draped  in  the  whitest  dimity, 
a  heavy  mahogany  bureau  with  respectable  brass 
knobs,  and  an  old-fashioned  glass  adorned  with 
festoons  of  pink  and  white  paper.  There  were 
faded  foot-stools,  worked  by  Mrs.  Ashley,  when 
a  girl,  in  chain-stitch  embroidery  ;  and  framed 
samplers  and  silhouette  portraits  upon  the  wall 
of  a  cappy  old  lady  and  a  spare  old  gentleman  ; 
and  matronly  bunches  of  life-everlasting  and 
crystallized  grasses  filling  the  plethoric  vases 
upon  the  mantel-piece.  Every  thing  was  in 
apple-pie  order  from  kitchen  to  parlor.  A 
pleasant,  moist  odor  of  Hannah's  sponge-cake 
clung  to  the  walls  ;  and  if  you  don't  know  what 
Hannah's  sponge-cake  was  like,  it  is  useless  for 
me  to  describe  it. 

Hannah  had  put  on  her  prettiest  lawn  dress 
— a  pale  green  that  became  her  blonde  beauty, 


1 88  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

and  touched  it  up  here  and  there  with  a  bit  of 
pink  ribbon.  Mrs.  Ashley  was  pinning  on  her 
false  puffs  before  the  glass,  and  fastening  her 
collar  with  a  brooch  adorned  with  a  daguerreo 
type  likeness  of  the  Deacon^  which  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  taken  in  a  particularly  bad  fit  of 
dyspepsia.  She  dearly  loved  young  company  ; 
and  there  was  a  bright  twinkle  in  her  eye, 
and  a  pucker  about  her  mouth,  provocative  of 
jokes. 

When  the  girls  had  assembled,  and  the  kiss 
ing  and  taking  off  of  things  was  well  through 
with,  the  grand  business  of  the  afternoon  began. 
Every  body  praised  Hannah's  pretty  quilt — 
pink  stars  dropped  on  to  a  white  ground.  Miss 
Treadwell  was  champion  quilter.  She  under 
stood  all  the  mysteries  of  herrin'-bone  and 
feather  patterns  ;  and,  with  a  chalk-line  in  her 
hand,  as  the  Deacon's  wife  expressed  it,  "  ruled 
the  roost."  Miss  Treadwell  was  a  thin-faced- 
precise  old  maid,  with  a  kind  of  withered  bloom 
on  her  cheek-bones,  and  a  laudable  desire  to 
make  the  most  of  her  few  skimpy  locks. 

"  Beats  all  how  young  Salina  Treadwell 
appears,"  whispered  the  Deacon's  wife  to  her 
next  neighbor.  "  She's  as  old  as  I  be  if  she's 


ggiH  Hannah's   Quilting   Party. 

When  the  kissing  was  well  through  with,  the  grand  business  of  the 
afternoon  began. 


Hannah's  Quilting.  191 

a  day,  and  here  she  goes  diddling  round  with 
the  girls." 

"  Hannah,  you  ought  to  give  this  quilt  to  the 
one  that  gets  married  first,"  put  in  Susan  Drake, 
threading  her  needle. 

"  I  know  who  that  will  be,"  said  Mrs.  Ashley, 
winking  hard  toward  Hetty  Sprague,  a  pretty, 
soft-headed  little  maiden,  with  cheeks  of  the 
damask-rose  and  dewy,  dark  eyes. 

"  O,  Miss  Ashley  ! "  cried  Hetty,  simpering 
sweetly,  "  how  can  you  talk  so  ?  You  know  I 
never  mean  to  get  married  all  my  born  days. 
Men  are  such  deceitful  creatures  !  " 

Miss  Treadwell  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and 
snapped  the  chalk-line  sentimentally,  as  if  she 
too  could  a  tale  unfold  that  would  tell  of  the 
perfidy  of  the  male  sex. 

"  I  don't,  for  my  part,  see  why  every  thing 
should  be  given  to  the  married  folks,"  returned 
Hannah,  tapping  lightly  on  the  frame  with  her 
thimble,  and  feeling  annoyed  because  Jane 
Freeman  and  her  friend  had  not  yet  put  in 
an  appearance.  "When  I  get  to  be  an  old 
maid  I'll  stuff  every  thing  soft  with  feathers 
and  wool,  and  keep  sixteen  cats,  like  Aunt 
Biceps." 


192  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"  You  an  old  maid  ! "  cried  merry  little  Nancy 
Duffy.  "  That's  a  likely  story.  I  guess  Fred 
will  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  about  it." 

"It  looks  as  if  Fred  had  got  a  new  string  to 
his  bow,"  remarked  Miss  Treadwell,  who  knew 
how  to  give  a  sharp  little  thrust  of  her  own. 
"  He  appears  to  be  mighty  thick  with  that  girl 
from  Hillsdale." 

"  Why,  there  goes  Fred  now ! "  cried  Hetty 
Sprague ;  and  the  girls  ran  to  the  window,  up 
setting  one  end  of  the  quilt,  just  in  time  to  see 
Fred's  sleek  chestnut  mare  trot  past,  with  Fred 
himself  so  absorbed  in  the  companion  by  his 
side  that  he  did  not  appear  to  remark  the 
battery  of  bright  eyes  under  which  he  was 
passing. 

Hannah  colored  and  bit  her  lips,  but  she 
recovered  herself  with  a  light  laugh. 

"  Never  mind,  girls,"  said  she ;  "  there  are  as 
good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  have  been  caught. 
I'll  show  you  Doctor  Bingham  to-night,  and 
you'll  all  say  he  is  perfectly  splendid." 

Then  began  a  little  mild  gossip  over  the 
Doctor,  as  to  who  he  was,  and  what  had  brought 
him  to  out-of-the-way  Drastic — for  the  young 
man  was  only  a  visitor  in  the  neighborhood — 


Hannah  *s  Quilting.  193 

and  in  the  clatter  of  tongues,  before  the  second 
rolling,  Hannah  had  slipped  out  to  get  tea.  At 
first  she  did  a  very  curious  thing  for  a  sensible 
young  woman  to  do.  She  got  behind  the  but 
tery-door  and  hid  her  face  in  the  roller-towel, 
and  something  very  like  a  genuine  sob  shook 
her  bosom,  while  some  bitter  tears  were  ab 
sorbed  into  the  crash.  The  truth  is,  Hannah 
was  jealous.  The  sight  of  Fred  devoting  him 
self  to  that  girl  from  Hillsdale,  whom  she  had 
begun  to  detest,  woke  her  up  to  the  state  of  her 
own  feelings,  and  perhaps  nothing  but  that 
would  ever  have  done  the  work. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  the  sponge-cake  to 
cut,  and  the  best  doyleys  to  be  got  out,  and  the 
ivory-handled  knives  to  be  taken  down  from 
the  top  shelf  of  the  closet.  She  had  to  calcu 
late  how  much  of  the  strawberry  preserves  it 
would  take  to  go  round  and  not  look  skimpy, 
and  who  should  sit  by  the  glass  dish,  and  how 
many  custard  cups  would  be  required  to  fill  the 
middle  of  the  table.  All  these  things  Hannah 
performed  with  as  much  accuracy  as  if  her  heart 
had  not  been  smarting  with  disappointment  and 
vexation. 

Mrs.  Ashley  was  never  more  in  her  element 


1 94  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

than   when   she   presided    at   a   feminine  tea- 
party. 

"  We  wont  have  any  of  the  men  folks  round 
to  bother,  girls,"  said  she  as  they  settled  like 
a  flock  of  doves  about  the  table,  which  Hannah 
had  so  temptingly  spread.  "  It's  busy  times  on 
the  farm  now,  and  the  Deacon  likes  a  bite  of 
something  hearty  for  his  tea,  so  I  told  him  he 
and  the  boys  might  wait.  Ahem,  Salina,  do 
you  take  sugar  in  your  tea  ? "  as  she  poured  out 
a  cup  of  the  delicate  green  flavored  beverage 
that  diffused  an  appetizing  fragrance  through 
the  room. 

"  O,  Miss  Ashley,"  cried  Nancy  Duffy,  "  you'll 
tell  our  fortunes,  wont  you  ?  There  isn't  a 
soul  here  to  know  about  it,  and  we'll  keep  as 
whist  as  mice." 

"  Now,  girls,  don't  make  me  appear  simple," 
said  Mrs.  Ashley,  leaning  back  and  wiping 
her  red  and  smiling  face  free  from  the  steam 
of  the  tea-pot.  "If  Miss  Whitcomb  should  get 
hold  of  it  she'd  say  it  didn't  become  a  deacon's 
wife." 

"  Never  mind  Miss  Whitcomb,"  broke  in 
Susan  Drake.  "  She  thinks  she's  arrived  at 
perfection,  and  such  folks  are  always  disagree- 


Hannah's  Quilting.  195 

?ble.  Here,  do  look  at  Salina  Treadwell's 
cup.  If  I'm  not  mistaken  there's  an  offer 
in  it." 

"  Of  course  there  is,"  said  Mrs.  Ashley, 
taking  up  the  cup  with  professional  interest. 
"  Don't  you  see  that  ring,  almost  closed,  with 
a  heart  inside  ?  And  she's  going  to  accept 
it.  It's  coming  from  a  light-complected  man. 
Looks  a  little  like  Sile  Winthrop,  down  at  the 
the  Corners." 

"  O,  Miss  Ashley,  how  you  do  talk!"  cried 
Salina,  mincing  her  biscuit  and  blushing  up  on 
her  cheek-bones. 

"  He  aint  a-going  to  live  long,  whoever  it  is," 
the  Deacon's  wife  went  on,  twirling  the  cup  with 
the  girls  hanging  over  her  shoulder,  and  her  eyes 
dancing  with  fun.  "Yes,  Salina,  you  will  be 
left  a  widder." 

"  What  a  sad  thing  it  must  be  to  lose  a  com 
panion,"  put  in  sentimental  Ann  Davis.  "  I 
should  hate  to  be  left  a  relic." 

"  Never  you  mind,  Salina,"  the  Deacon's  wife 
continued,  with  a  wink.  "  If  I'm  not  mistaken 
you'll  console  yourself  with  number  two.  Look 
there,  girls,  at  the  true-lovers'  knot  and  the  bow 
and  arrers." 


196  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Miss  Treadwell  held  up  her  hands  in  mock 
horror,  and  affirmed  that  she  didn't  believe  a 
word  of  it ;  but  it  was  noticeable,  as  Mrs.  Ash 
ley  said,  that  she  was  "  chipperer  "  all  the  rest 
of  the  evening. 

"  Come,  now  tell  Hannah's,"  cried  Hetty 
Sprague.  So  Hannah  passed  along  her  cup. 

"  Why,  child,  you're  going  to  shed  tears,  and 
there's  a  little  cloud  of  trouble  round  you  ;  but 
it  will  clear  away,  and  you'll  get  your  wish  in 
spite  of  every  thing." 

"  Don't  you  see  saddle-bags  and  pill-boxes 
there  ?  "  inquired  Nancy  Duffy. 

"  Go  along  with  your  stuff  and  nonsense, 
girls ! "  exclaimed  the  Deacon's  wife,  waving 
away  the  cup.  "  If  husband  should  get  hold 
of  it  he'd  say  I  was  trifling." 

That  evening,  after  Doctor  Bingham  had 
fooled  a  good  deal  with  Hannah — had  pressed 
her  hand  at  parting,  and  whispered  he  should 
hope  to  see  her  next  evening  at  the  singing-class 
— she  remembered  her  fortune,  and  did  let  some 
bitter  tears  soak  into  her  pillow.  She  was  not 
wise  enough  in  worldly  ways  to  suspect  that 
the  Doctor,  a  town-bred  man,  had  set  Hetty 
Sprague's  silly  little  heart  a-fluttering  while  he 


Hannah's  Quilting.  197 

walked  home  with  her  under  the  warm  star 
light,  although,  in  very  truth,  he  did  not  care  a 
np  for  either  of  them.  Hannah  was  content  to 
play  him  off  against  Fred,  let  the  consequences 
be  what  they  might ;  and  more  and  more  as  she 
thought  the  matter  over,  she  blamed  that  design 
ing  girl  from  Hillsdale. 

The  next  night  set  in  with  a  mild  drizzle; 
and,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Ashley's  protestations, 
Hannah  was  off  to  the  singing-class.  This 
class  had  been  established  to  improve  the  church 
music,  which,  as  the  Deacon  said,  sadly  needed 
"  tinkering ;  "  and  gradually  it  became  a  resort 
for  the  young  people  of  the  village,  while  its 
functions  were  stretched  to  include  a  good  deal 
of  mild  flirtation.  Hannah,  on  entering,  looked 
anxiously  round  to  discover  the  Doctor ;  but, 
strange  to  say,  he  was  absent.  Fred;  who  be 
longed  to  the  choir,  sat  in  his  usual  place  alone. 
Neither  Jane  nor  her  young  lady  visitor  had 
accompanied  him.  These  facts  Hannah  ascer 
tained  before  she  let  her  eyes  drop  on  her  note 
book.  She  watched  the  door  keenly  all  through 
the  hour  of  practice ;  but  the  Doctor  did  not 
make  his  appearance,  and  her  indignation  grew 

apace.     She  hoped  to  slip  away,  a  little  in  ad- 
13 


198  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

vance  of  the  crowd,  before  the  exercises  were 
quite  over,  and  the  cordon  of  young  men  had 
formed  about  the  entrance.  But  just  as  she  was 
stepping  off  into  the  darkness,  with  the  warm 
rain  falling  steadily,  a  hand  touched  her  arm. 

"  Let  me  walk  home  with  you,  Hannah.  I 
have  an  umbrella,  and  you  are  unprovided." 
It  was  Fred's  voice ;  and  Hannah  was  nettled 
to  remark  not  even  a  touch  of  penitence  in  its 
tone. 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  she  returned,  stiffly.  "  I 
prefer  to  go  alone." 

"  But  you  cannot  refuse  my  company  for  a 
few  steps,  at  least,"  said  he,  pushing  up  his  um 
brella  and  shielding  her  whether  or  no,  "for  I 
have  brought  an  apology  from  Bingham.  I  am 
going  to  tell  you,  as  a  great  secret,"  Fred  went 
on,  confidentially,  while  Hannah  kept  still  from 
sheer  astonishment,  "  that  the  Doctor  and  that 
forty-'leventh  cousin  of  ours,  from  Hillsdale, 
were  engaged  once.  The  Doctor's  a  capital  fel 
low,  but  there's  a  jealous  streak  in  him.  He 
wanted  to  keep  a  loose  foot,  and  wasn't  willing 
Mary  should  do  the  same.  She's  an  uncom 
monly  pretty,  lively  girl" — a  sharp  twinge  in 
Hannah's  left  side — "  and,  of  course,  she  wasn't 


Hannah's  Quilting.  199 

going  to  be  cooped  up,  and  the  result  was  they 
quarreled.  But  they  did  really  care  for  each 
other,  and  now  the  thing  is  made  up,  and  I 
guess  they  have  found  out  what  a  sneaking, 
unrighteous  thing  jealousy  is." 

"There  might  be  cause  for  it,"  returned 
Hannah,  faintly,  as  she  felt  her  spirit  oozing 
away. 

"  Come  now,  Hannah,  you  mean  to  hit  me, 
and  I  might  hit  back  again,  but  I  wont,  for  I 
haven't  loved  any  body  but  you — just  as  much 
as  you  would  let  me — ever  since  I  was  a  boy. 
I  am  one  of  the  constant  kind.  Don't  you 
know  I  am,  Hannah  ? " — very  softly  spoken  for 
such  a  big  fellow.  "  My  heart  has  learned  one 
trick  of  loving,  and  it  can't  unlearn  it." 

"  Why,  sir,  didn't  you  and  Jane  come  to  my 
quilting  party  ? " — spoken  in  a  shaky  voice,  and 
showing  the  white  feather  badly — "  and  why  did 
you  go  gallivanting  off  with  that  girl  ? " 

"  You  did  not  ask  us,  in  the  first  place,  and 
that  girl  was  a  visitor,  and  I  liked  her." 

"  Don't  be  saucy.  I  sent  a  note  to  Jane,  and 
told  father  to  give  it  to  Andy." 

"  Ha,  ha ! "  laughed  Fred,  "  it  is  all  explained 
now.  The  old  gentleman  sent  us  an  advertise- 


2OO  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

ment  of  Puffer's  Pills  by  mistake,  and  you  will 
find  the  note  quietly  reposing  in  his  pocket." 

I  am  afraid  Fred  was  saucy,  for  when  Han 
nah  got  into  the  house  there  was  something 
very  sweet  and  delicious  tingling  upon  her  lips. 
She  crept  into  the  sitting-room,  where  she  could 
hear  the  good  old  Deacon  calmly  snoring,  and 
slipped  the  little  note  out  of  the  breast  pocket 
of  his  coat. 

Long  afterward,  when  she  had  been  Fred's 
wife  many  a  year,  and  the  colors  of  the  pretty 
star-quilt  had  faded  upon  her  bed,  Hannah 
would  take  the  little  billet,  grown  yellow  now, 
from  an  inner  drawer,  where  she  kept  it  along 
with  a  silky  tress  cut  from  the  head  of  the  baby 
she  had  lost,  and  kiss  it  tenderly,  as  if  new  faith 
and  trust  could  emanate  from  its  folds. 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  201 


THE  GOOD-BYE  KISS. 


through  night-train  on  the  "  Great 
Northern  "  was  within  ten  minutes  of  start 
ing  time. 

The  steam-whistle  had  given  its  first  premoni 
tory  shriek,  passengers  were  hurrying  in  with 
bags  and  shawls,  and  the  demand  for  seats  was 
becoming  lively. 

Among  those  who  entered  the  sleeping-car 
just  at  this  moment  was  a  young  man,  and  a 
girl — evidently  his  sister — some  two  or  three 
years  younger  than  himself. 

They  were  neither  of  them  handsome,  or  in 
any  way  noticeable,  except  as  possessing  earnest 
faces,  marked  with  intelligence  and  the  lines  of 
early  care. 

"  Here  is  your  berth,  Milly.  I  secured  a 
whole  one,  because  I  knew  you  would  not  like 
being  put  with  a  stranger.  And  I  bought  you 
a  picture  paper  and  some  oranges  to  beguile  the 
way." 

"  Thank  you,  Ralph.     You  are  very  thought- 


2O2  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

ful  of  my  little  comforts.  I  do  not  dread  this 
journey  a  bit ;  and  you  know,  generally,  I  am 
rather  timid  about  traveling." 

Ralph  was  busy  arranging  Milly's  things  on 
the  opposite  seat.  "  Of  course  you'll  write  im 
mediately,  and  let  me  know  how  you  get 
through  to  Fulham,  and  how  you  find  things." 

"  O,  certainly ;  be  assured  of  that.  I  shall 
have  Saturday  and  Sunday  to  look  about,  and 
get  acquainted,  before  I  begin  my  school  Mon 
day  morning.  You  shall  have  a  faithful  report 
of  all  I  see  and  hear." 

"  Well  " — and  the  young  man  stood  with  his 
hand  on  the  back  of  the  seat,  looking  rather 
nervously  at  the  door,  as  if  afraid  of  being  car 
ried  off — "  take  care  of  yourself,  and  keep  up 
good  courage." 

"  Never  fear  about  that,  Ralph  ;  and  I  beg  of 
you  to  take  care  of  yourself  and  not  overwork." 
Milly's  voice  trembled  the  least  bit,  in  spite  of 
her  show  of  bravery. 

"  O,  don't  fret  on  my  account,"  returned  the 
brother.  "  A  man  can  always  get  along."  This 
was  said  with  a  touch  of  superiority,  as  if  his 
male  condition  ought  to  put  him  beyond  the 
reach  of  a  woman's  solicitude. 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  203 

The  girl's  eyes  grew  a  little  misty  and  wist 
ful.  Perhaps  Ralph  did  not  see  it.  "  There  ! " 
said  he,  as  a  long  shiver  ran  through  the  train, 
"  I  must  be  off.  Good-bye ! " 

"  Good-bye  ! "  They  shook  hands  ;  the  car 
door  banged  ;  Ralph  was  gone. 

"  O  dear ! "  sighed  Milly,  and  she  hastily  got 
up  and  went  over  to  the  opposite  window.  The 
train  was  jerking  now  like  a  victim  of  St.  Vitus' 
dance.  There  Ralph  stood  among  hackmen, 
porters,  and  baggage  trucks.  How  preoccupied 
and  tired  he  looked  !  Milly  sighed  more  deeply 
than  ever  as  she  tried  in  vain  to  catch  his  eye. 
There  comes  a  long  defiant  shriek  from  the  en 
gine,  with  a  crescendo  which  says  "  Positively 
the  last."  They  are  moving  off.  He  sees  her 
now  and  waves  his  hand,  his  face  lit  up  with 
something  like  real  interest  and  affection. 

Now  the  train  crawls,  like  a  long,  many-jointed 
worm,  out  of  the  smoky  depot.  Milly  has  lost 
sight  of  her  brother,  so  she  sinks  back  into  her 
own  particular  corner,  and  begins  to  feel  very 
miserable  and  desolate. 

"  I  wish  Ralph  had  kissed  me  good-bye."  That 
was  the  thought  uppermost  in  Milly's  mind,  and 
it  brought  a  few  very  real,  positive  tears  to  her 


2O4  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

eyes.  The  sleeping-car  was  but  comfortably 
filled,  and  this  circumstance,  with  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  berths,  secured  to  the  young  trav 
eler  a  very  grateful  sense  of  privacy.  Life  was 
all  before  her — all  to  win.  A  few  weeks  before, 
the  position  in  the  Fulham  high-school  she  had 
since  secured  had  seemed  the  one  thing  needful 
to  her  happiness.  Now  it  had  lost  a  little  of  its 
rose  hue,  and  the  dreary  struggle  for  self-sup 
port,  which  orphanage  and  poverty  forced  upon 
her,  stretched  out  a  bleak  perspective.  She  be 
gan  to  realize  that  it  meant  separation  from  her 
brother,  the  only  near  relative  now  remaining 
to  her  on  earth.  Their  life-ways  had  begun  di 
verging,  and  who  could  say  if  they  would  ever 
again  become  one,  as  in  years  gone  by  ? 

Some  very  old  sources  of  pain,  some  very 
secret  pangs,  awoke  in  Milly's  mind  as  she  sat 
with  her  head  resting  against  the  window,  and 
a  thick  blue  vail  drawn  over  her  face.  They  all 
resolved  themselves  into  that  but  half-acknowl 
edged  regret — "  I  am  so  sorry  Ralph  didn't  kiss 
me  good-bye ! " 

There  was  much  mutual  respect  and  esteem 
between  this  brother  and  sister,  but  not  that 
frank  and  free  intimacy  which  perhaps  more 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  205 

frequently  exists  between  those  unallied  by 
blood  than  between  the  members  of  one  house 
hold.  Milly  always  felt  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  she  did  not  quite  come  up  to  Ralph's 
standard  of  young  ladyhood,  and  it  made  her 
plainer  and  quieter  to  him  than  to  other  people. 
He  knew  she  was  the  best  girl  in  the  world,  with 
five  times  as  much  sense  in  her  head  as  all  the 
gay  butterflies  of  his  native  town  put  together  ; 
but  his  eyes  informed  him  that  she  was  neither 
pretty  nor  exactly  graceful,  and  that  she  did  not 
possess  the  art  of  dressing  with  elegance  on  a 
very  insufficient  sum  of  pocket-money. 

Ralph  possessed  a  keen  love  of  beauty,  and 
an  intense  desire  to  rise  in  the  world.  He 
knew  that  some  day  he  should  push  his  way  to 
fortune  ;  and  his  sister,  he  felt,  ought  to  be  able 
to  grace  any  position  in  life.  It  chafed  him  bit 
terly  that  he  could  not  at  once  furnish  her  an 
ample  support,  which  would  take  away  the 
necessity  for  daily  drudging  in  the  school-room. 

Often,  when  he  came  home  at  night  dissatis 
fied,  moody,  and  silent,  there,  in  the  shabby 
little  sitting-room,  sat  Milly,  with  her  tired, 
patient  face  bent  over  her  work,  perhaps  a  new 
shirt  for  himself  or  some  garment  for  her  own 


206  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

wearing,  which  ten  busy  fingers  made  haste  to 
construct  in  the  few  hours  allotted  for  such 
tasks. 

A  tired  man  likes  to  be  amused,  and  too  often 
forgets  that  a  tired  woman  has  the  same  need 
of  diversion  as  himself.  If  Milly  had  been 
more  positively  cheerful  and  light-hearted,  per 
haps  Ralph  would  have  loved  her  more ;  but 
early  care  and  the  wearing  anxieties  of  life  had 
brought  her  spirits  down  to  low-water  mark. 
So  sweetly  uncomplaining,  so  watchful  for 
Ralph's  comfort,  so  kind  and  unselfish,  Milly 
still  seldom  rose  to  the  exuberance  of  mirth. 
Ralph  might  have  doted  on  a  gay,  hoydenish, 
spoiled  sister ;  but  how  could  he  be  expected 
to  know  that  poor  Milly's  back  was  aching,  that 
her  head  grew  dizzy,  and  her  eyes  weak,  from 
too  much  night-work  and  too  little  sleep,  when 
she  never  in  the  remotest  way  hinted  at  these 
facts  ? 

So  their  evenings  were  generally  spent  in  si 
lence,  the  sister  plying  her  busy  needle,  the 
brother  reading,  rarely  aloud,  as  the  works  he 
perused  on  engineering,  mechanics,  and  the  like, 
full  of  dry  terms  and  technicalities,  were  unsuited 
to  such  a  purpose.  It  was  seldom  that  he  could 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  207 

spare  half  an  hour  from  his  studies  to  take  up  a 
volume  of  the  poets  or  a  magazine  story,  and 
weave  a  transient  spell  of  romance  around  his 
sister's  barren  existence.  With  him  "  time  was 
money,  knowledge  was  power."  These  princi 
ples  ruled  and  curbed  all  his  impulses. 

At  ten  o'clock  Ralph  would  light  his  lamp, 
and  with  a  curt  good-night,  often  without  a 
word,  stalk  away  to  his  little  mean  bedroom. 
How  late  Milly  stayed  and  toiled  he  never  knew. 
No  good-night  kiss  passed  between  them. 
The  brother  and  sister  were  wholly  undemon 
strative.  One  never  asked  affection,  the  other 
never  dared  to  offer  it  for  fear  of  a  repulse. 

How  often,  when  she  saw  that  brooding,  dis 
contented  look  upon  his  face,  did  Milly  long  to 
go  and  throw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  to 
caress  his  cheek,  to  charm  away  the  frown  from 
his  forehead,  to  tell  him  of  the  ardent,  pure, 
unselfish  love  that  filled  her  heart,  like  the 
waters  of  a  never-failing  spring  ! 

O,  if  she  only  had  done  it,  poor  little  Milly ! 
who  can  tell  but  Ralph's  really  fine  nature 
would  have  broken  through  its  artificial  crust  in 
response  to  such  a  generous  appeal  ?  But  she 
never  did  do  it.  Shy  and  sensitive,  dreading  a 


208  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

rebuff  more  than  a  physical  hurt,  Milly  shrank 
farther  and  farther  into  her  own  shadow ;  and 
now  the  humble  home  was  broken  up,  the  old 
anxious  life  was  ended,  and  Ralph  had  parted 
from  her  without  one  good-bye  kiss — one  sign 
of  all  they  had  lived  through  and  suffered  in 
common  ! 

Milly  cried  very  softly  behind  her  blue  vail 
for  twenty  miles  or  more.  The  long  train  in  its 
swift  flight  across  country  seemed  to  clank  and 
beat  out  a  kind  of  refrain  to  her  thoughts,  and 
the  burden  was  ever,  "  I  am  so  sorry  Ralph  did 
not  kiss  me  good-bye." 

They  had  startled  a  good  many  quiet  country 
places,  and  rushed  tumultuously  over  trestle- 
work  and  through  tunnels,  before  Milly  was  re 
called  to  the  present  by  a  sudden  gleam  of  sun 
set  that  shot  its  splendors  through  the  car  win 
dow.  She  awoke  out  of  a  fit  of  sad  musing,  to 
find  that  they  had  neared  the  banks  of  a  pictur 
esque  river,  and  were  shooting  along  under 
the  shadow  of  some  fine  purple  hills.  The 
water  repeated  the  color  of  these  hills  in  a 
modified  tone,  and  gently  undulated  through  a 
mist  of  the  purest  violet.  The  sky  glowed  in 
orange  tints  behind ;  and  as  it  deepened,  the 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  209 

hills  and  the  river  changed  to  a  more  unreal 
loveliness. 

Sweeping  away,  like  a  curtain  that  some  in 
visible  hand  had  parted,  rose  a  dark  cloud, 
fold  upon  fold.  Against,  it  floated  a  bit  of 
white  vapor,  relieved  on  the  dark  back-ground 
like  a  stone  cameo. 

The  thick  mask  of  cloud  and  mist  had  parted 
just  when  the  richest  glow  filled  the  heavens, 
and  suddenly,  without  warning,  the  cone  of 
this  brightness  seemed  to  fall  apart,  and  scatter 
its  dying  embers  along  the  hills,  with  a  tran 
sient,  hectic  beauty  that  dropped  down  to  ashes. 
Trees  and  rocks,  waves  and  clouds,  turned 
pallid  in  an  instant.  It  was  the  cold,  still 
change  of  death  that  succeeds  a  vision  of  the 
ineffable  glories  of  the  hereafter.  There  was 
the  long-trailing  cloud  still,  and  against  it  that 
floating  bit  of  white  vapor.  It  appeared  now 
to  Milly's  fancy,  that  loved  to  trace  pictures 
in  the  clouds,  like  a  death's  head  and  cross- 
bones. 

The  idea  brought  a  kind  of  shiver  to  her 
nerves,  a  half-defined,  superstitious  feeling  of 
some  evil  to  come  ;  but  still  she  was  fascinated, 
and  impelled  to  watch  the  shape  that  seemed 


2io  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

for     many    miles     persistently   to    follow    the 
train. 

The  influence  of  this  fancy  still  vaguely  clung 
about  her  after  night  had  come,  and  she  was 
trying  to  court  sleep  in  her  comfortable  little 
berth,  with  the  curtains  drawn,  and  her  bag  and 
cloak  stopping  out  the  draughts. 

The  rumble  and  roar  of  the  car  seemed  to  re 
tire  beneath  her,  and  sounded  like  innumerable 
trip-hammers  reverberating  along  the  rocky 
walls  of  a  cavern.  She  could  hear  two  men 
talking  low  in  the  berth  next  her  own.  One 
said  the  train  shook  a  good  deal,  and  it  was 
the  opinion  of  the  other  that  they  were  run 
ning  all-fired  fast. 

These  remarks  gave  Milly  a  momentary 
twinge  of  uneasiness  ;  but  it  soon  passed  away. 
She  lay  quite  still,  listening  to  the  low,  half-sup 
pressed  singing  of  a  mother  not  far  off,  who  was 
hushing  her  baby  to  sleep.  The  sound  had  a 
sort  of  sadness  in  it  to  the  young  girl's  ear,  and 
made  her  feel  all  the  more  the  emptiness  of  her 
life  and  of  her  heart. 

Now  and  then  the  car  door  opened,  and  a 
light  gleamed  for  a  moment  along  her  curtain 
and  was  gone.  Presently  Milly  fell  into  one  of 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  2 1 1 

those  strange  states,  neither  sleeping  nor  wak 
ing.  She  heard  distinctly  the  heavy  breathing 
of  the  sleepers  around  her.  She  heard  the 
stealthy  tread  of  the  conductor  as  he  passed  to 
and  fro.  But  still  that  vision  of  river  and  sky 
seemed  to  hang  before  her  eyes  with  a  death's- 
head  and  cross-bones  fleeting  after  the  train. 
Still  the  rush  of  the  engine,  the  clanking  of 
the  wheels,  seemed  to  repeat  in  endless  varia 
tions  that  sad,  regretful  under-tone  of  her 
thoughts,  "  I  am  so  sorry  Ralph  did  not  kiss 
me  good-bye  !  " 

The  scene  changed  as  she  glided  more  and 
more  out  toward  the  deep  waters  of  oblivion. 
She  was  at  home  now  with  Ralph  under  the 
great  old  elms  of  the  door-yard.  They  were 
children  again  ;  and  Ralph,  to  tease  her,  was 
trying  to  climb  the  house.  She  stood  below, 
remonstrating  and  pleading  with  clasped  hands  ; 
but  the  rash  boy  had  got  upon  the  shed  roof, 
and  answered  her  entreaties  with  contemptuous 
words.  Breathlessly  she  saw  him  cling  to  the 
angle  of  the  main  building,  and  then  creep 
'  along  the  drain -pipe  up,  up  to  the  ridge-pole. 
There  he  stood  at  last,  waving  down  to  her, 
until  the  house  appeared  to  rise  and  grow  so 


212  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

tall  it  touched  the  sky.  Ralph  rose  with  it, 
throwing  kisses  below  in  mockery,  when  his 
foot  seemed  to  slip  ;  he  tottered  upon  the  dizzy 
brink,  wavered,  strove  to  right  himself  in  vain, 
then  fell. 

"  My  God  !  "  A  crash.  Blow  after  blow,  re 
peated  quickly.  A  whirring,  clashing,  grind 
ing  motion  ;  shriek  upon  shriek ;  the  sharp 
splintering  up  of  wood ;  the  jagged,  harsh, 
grating  sounds  from  bolts  and  bars  wrenched 
•out  of  their  places  ;  the  hurling  down  of  broken, 
unformed  masses,  and  there  Milly  lay,  crushed, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  embankment,  with  an  inde 
scribable  weight  upon  her  chest,  that  forced 
the  blood  up  to  her  eyes  and  mouth — still  alive, 
and  sensible  that  a  frightful  accident  had  oc 
curred. 

She  thought  so  much  in  the  few  minutes  that 
unspeakable  anguish  lasted  !  What  pen  could 
describe  those  thoughts  ?  What  calm,  unmoved 
brain  could  picture  them  ?  Strange  to  say,  she 
thought  with  a  kind  of  compassion,  greater 
than  the  pity  she  felt  for  her  own  broken  body, 
of  that  mother  she  had  heard  crooning  to  her 
baby  a  few  hours  before.  Something  yielding 
and  round  lay  pressed  against  her  feet.  There 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  213 

was  just  sensation  enough  left  in  her  toes  to 
make  that  out.  Could  it  be  the  little,  soft 
baby  ?  Yes,  it  was. 

She  tried  to  speak.  Only  one  articulate  word 
came  to  her  lips.  It  was  "  Ralph  ! "  and  then 
that  old  emotion  that  had  vibrated  on  her  heart 
strings  so  painfully  ever  since  they  parted  woke 
even  in  the  pit  of  death,  with  but  the  merest 
fragment  of  a  torn  and  shattered  mortality  re 
maining,  "  O,  I  wish  Ralph  had  kissed  me 
good-bye  !  "  Too  late  for  good-bye  kisses  ;  too 
late  for  atoning  love  ;  too  late  for  reparation  ! 
The  agonized  dew  of  death  was  standing  on 
Milly's  forehead.  She  would  not  have  lasted 
long,  except  for  a  little  fresh  air  that  sifted  down 
through  a  crevice  of  the  car  roof  that  pressed 
upon  her  bosom,  and  was  crushed  down  by  a 
mountain  weight  of  debris. 

Her  right  hand  still  retained  some  slight  de 
gree  of  feeling  and  motion.  She  managed,  with 
great  effort,  to  raise  it  and  put  it  through  this 
opening.  Then  she  felt,  so  to  speak,  for  the 
fingers  of  her  left  hand,  but  they  were  gone,  and 
the  whole  arm  with  them  ;  nothing  remained  in 
its  place  but  a  dull  ache. 

Presently    a  ray   of   light  flashed  into  this 
14 


2 1 4  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours. 

crevice  from  a  lantern,  and  a  pair  of  kind  eyes 
looked  down  into  her  filmy  ones.  "  God ! "  said 
the  owner  of  the  eyes,  a  great,  stalwart  man, 
covered  with  smoke,  grime,  and  blood,  (one  end 
of  the  demolished  train  had  taken  fire,  and  he 
had  performed  prodigies  with  his  naked  hands,) 
as  he  touched  Milly's  little  broken  hand,  "  here 
is  a  child.  No,  a  young  girl.  Poor  lamb ! 
poor  lamb !  It's  the  very  hardest  place  to  get 
at."  He  stooped  a  little  nearer,  and  kept  the 
little  hand  in  his,  chafing  it  softly. 

"  Are  you  a  brave  girl  ? " 

The  filmy  eyes  looked  up  to  his  with  almost 
a  bright,  answering  glance  ;  the  little  hand  al 
most  closed  ;  and  the  violet  lips,  with  exceeding 
great  effort,  replied,  "  Yes,  sir."  Never  had 
the  small,  plain  face  looked  so  divinely  brave 
and  patient  as  it  looked  now. 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  man  with  inspir 
ing  heartiness,  though  his  strong  voice  quivered 
too.  "  Could  you  hold  on,  think,  an  hour,  till 
we  pry  you  out  ? " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  in  a  whisper.  "  Don't  try." 
The  bright  look  changed  now  to  a  wondrous 
smile. 

The  man  bent  nearer  to   catch  the  words 


The  Good-bye  Kiss.  215 

her  lips  were  forming.     "  Would  you  write  for 
me  ? " 

"  Yes." 

•'  Can  you  hear  what  I  say  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  If  you  don't  hear,  press  my  hand.  Ralph 
Fairbanks,  Rexford.  Dear  Ralph,  good-bye. 
God  bless  you  !  I  never  told  you  how  much  I 
loved  you.  It  was  my  fault'* — her  mind  seemed 
to  flicker.  "  Don't  fret,  dear ;  I  was  to  blame 
— only — only  I'm — so  sorry  you  didn't — kiss — 
me  good-bye !  " 

The  voice  came  as  if  every  word  was  depend 
ent  on  a  feebler  and  still  feebler  pulsation  of  the 
heart  At  last  it  stopped.  There  was  no  sound 
to  the  listener's  ear,  only  that  brave,  enduring 
look  lingered  upon  her  face.  The  little  hand 
grew  limp  in  his.  He  laid  it  reverently  upon 
the  young  girl's  breast,  and  wrenching  off  a 
piece  of  planking  from  the  car  roof  with  pro 
digious  strength,  knelt  down  and  pressed  a  holy 
kiss  on  the  yet  warm  lips. 


216  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 


LETTY'S  RIGHTS. 


RDINARILY,  little  Mrs.  Bennett  was 
hopefulness  itself ;  but  she  took  rather  a 
melancholy  view  of  Letty's  case,  because  her 
mind  was  not  adapted  to  understand  it. 

"  Well,  mother,  how  goes  things  ?  "  It  was 
Ethan  Bennett's  question,  and  he  used  the 
good  old-fashioned  mode  of  address  in  speak 
ing  to  his  wife. 

Ethan  was  a  tall,  stoop-shouldered  farmer, 
well  browned  and  seasoned  by  New  England 
sun  and  wind,  and  powdered  over  now  by  the 
dust  of  travel  ;  but  Mrs.  Ethan,  for  whom  the 
words  were  meant,  was  rounded  to  just  that  de 
gree  of  plumpness  which  befits  a  matron  of  her 
years  :  with  the  stuff  dress  fitting  accurately 
over  the  broad,  motherly  bosom  ;  with  her  face 
filling  the  comeliest  curves  ;  with  a  chin  slightly 
double,  where  dimples  hovered  ;  with  a  nose  all 
the  better  for  turning  up  a  little,  and  a  mouth 


Letty' s  Rights.  217 

very  pleasant  in  spite  of  false  teeth ;  and  a 
kindly  pair  of  brown  eyes.  Now,  as  she  stood 
there  on  the  stoop,  with  her  dress  hitching  up 
slightly  in  front,  showing  a  neat  prunella  gaiter. 
her  face  was  overclouded,  and  she  shook  her 
head  rather  dismally. 

"  What's  to  pay  now,  mother  ? "  inquired 
Ethan,  putting  down  his  lean  carpet-satchel  on 
the  settee. 

"  O,  it's  only  Letty,"  groaned  Mrs.  Bennett. 
"She's  been  having  a  fuss  with  the  trustees,  and 
she  says  she  shall  leave  school  if  they  don't  toe 
the  mark.  There  never  was  so  strange  a  child 
as  Letty  is.  I  can't  make  out  where  she  gets 
her  sotness  and  her  queer  notions." 

"  It's  only  Letty,  then,"  echoed  Mr.  Bennett, 
as  if  Letty  were  a  chronic  difficulty  in  the  fam 
ily.  "Wai,  I  thought  for  sure  one  of  the  horses 
had  foundered,  or  old  Wooley  been  choked  with 
a  corn-cob.  I  guess  Letty  will  keep,  mother, 
till  you  get  me  something  to  eat,  for  I'm  as 
holler  as  a  drum." 

Ethan  Bennett  was  one  of  those  men  who, 
while  in  a  state  of  hollowness,  are  utterly  bereft 
of  ideas  or  inventions  ;  so  he  stepped  into  his 
own  door  with  that  infinite  sense  of  rest  which 


2 1 8  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

multitudes  of  people  never  feel  away  from  home. 
His  very  hat,  with  something  of  the  slouchy  air 
natural  to  its  master,  looked  as  if  it  felt  better 
for  being  hung  back  on  the  old  peg.  With  a 
half  sigh  of  satisfaction  Ethan  settled  into  his 
favorite  chair,  in  that  corner  of  the  sitting-room 
which  was  handy  to  the  file  of  the  county  paper, 
and  the  old  clock,  and  mother's  work-table,  and 
afforded  a  glimpse  of  the  roadway  through  the 
parted  boughs  of  the  maple,  by  the  gate,  with 
the  sound  of  cackling  hens  coming  from  the 
barn-yard. 

"  Mother,"  said  Ethan,  just  as  a  chanticleer  set 
up  a  jubilant  note,  "there  aint  no  roosters  that 
crow  like  ourn." 

Mrs.  Bennett  laughed  an  unctuous  little 
laugh.  She  was  glad  to  have  Ethan  say  such 
things.  It  showed  that  he  prized  his  home. 
She  knew  he  was  tired,  though  his  face  never 
changed  much  ;  for  hadn't  she,  as  she  said,  been 
taking  the  latitude  and  longitude  of  that  man 
for  the  last  twenty-five  years  ?  It  was  comfort 
ing  now  to  look  at  her  cheery,  buxom  figure  as 
she  drew  in  front  of  him  a  small  table,  that  he 
might  have  every  thing  ready  at  a  turn  of  his 
hand,  and  placed  thereon  what,  in  New  England 


Letty's  Rights.  219 

parlance,  is  known  as  a  platter  of  cold  victuals 
— corned  beef  and  cabbage,  potatoes,  nicely 
pared,  and  rosy  beets,  all  resting  cheek  by  jowl 
on  the  same  dish.  Then  she  brought  forth  the 
cruet-stand,  and  some  snowy  bread,  with  a  pat  of 
the  last  churning  of  butter,  as  yellow  as  gold, 
and  half  a  dozen  long  dough-nuts,  twisted  and 
twirled,  and  browned  to  perfection,  crispy  to 
the  tooth  and  fragrant  to  the  nostrils. 

We  will  leave  Ethan  to  partake  of  what  he 
called  his  "  snack,"  as  he  intended  to  reserve 
the  larger  portion  of  his  appetite  for  the  stated 
evening  meal.  It  is  not  always  an  alluring 
sight  to  see  a  hungry  man  eat ;  but  Mrs.  Ethan 
beamed  on  him  delightedly.  She  loved,  as  she 
expressed  it,  "  to  have  folks  take  hold  hearty," 
especially  her  own  husband,  when  he  had  been 
away  on  a  journey.  It  was  a  substantial  tribute 
to  the  comforts  of  home  and  the  excellence  of 
her  cooking. 

The  cold  victuals  rapidly  disappeared,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  good  half  hour  Ethan  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  put  his  hand  somewhere  in  the 
region  of  his  stomach. 

"  Now,  mother,"  said  he,  "  what  about  Letty  ? " 

"Wait  till  I've  done  this  little  chore,"   re- 


220  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

turned  Mrs.  Bennett,  "  and  can  take  my  work 
and  sit  down." 

There  was  a  basket  of  golden  pippins  on  the 
table  near  at  hand.  Ethan  took  one  and  peeled 
it  with  his  jack-knife,  and  let  the  long  peel 
dangle  lazily  down.  Pretty  soon  the  wife  was 
ready  to  take  her  place  beside  him,  in  her  low 
chair,  with  the  bright  pieces  of  the  patch- work 
she  was  putting  together  spotting  the  rag-car 
pet,  and  the  sunshine  coming  in  fitfully  through 
the  branches  of  her  window  geraniums  and  flick 
ering  about  her  neat,  homely  grown.  Farmers' 
wives  are  apt  to  grow  angular  and  harsh  of 
feature  comparatively  early ;  but  all  the  juices 
were  preserved  in  good  little  Mrs.  Bennett's 
composition.  Ethan  looked  at  her  as  if  she 
were  handsomer  in  his  eyes  now  than  the  day 
they  got  married.  Ethan  was  not  impatient  by 
nature.  He  was  a  slow  man,  and  willing  to 
bide  his  wife's  time ;  and  so  Letty's  story  was 
told. 

"  You  see,"  she  began,  "  that  Austin  has  had 
to  leave  the  school ;  the  boys  hooted  him  out. 
He  was  a  poor  shack  any  way,  if  he  had  been 
to  college.  You  can't  make  a  whistle  out 
of  a  pig's  tail  if  you  try  ever  so  hard. 


Lefty's  Rights.  221 

Now,  the  trustees  have  come  coaxing  round 
Letty  to  get  her  to  take  Austin's  place  for  fifty 
dollars  a  quarter  less  than  he  got.  But  Letty 
says  no ;  and  you  ought  to  see  her  eyes  snap. 
She  says  if  she  does  Austin's  work  she  must 
have  his  pay ;  she  wont  take  the  place  for  a  cent 
less.  Her  head  is  full  of  them  new-fangled 
notions  about  woman's  rights.  She  says  women 
aint  a-going  to  be  put  upon  as  they  always  have 
been.  Dear,  I  don't  know  nothing  how  to 
answer  her,  for  she  can  speak  five  words  to  my 
one  ;  but  if  school  breaks  up  and  she  comes 
home,  she'll  be  as  oneasy  as  a  fish  out  of  water. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  begun  to  talk,  just 
as  she  did  last  fall,  about  going  down  South 
to  teach  the  colored  folks.  I  hain't  got  noth 
ing  against  the  blacks,  and  I  guess  they're 
smart  to  learn,  from  all  accounts  ;  but  I  can't 
bear  to  have  Letty  streak  off  nobody  knows 
where.  Dear,  I  sometimes  most  wish  she'd 
marry  Sol  Spinner.  He's  been  like  hejj  shad- 
der  for  a  year  or  two.  It  would  take  the  notions 
out  of  her,  and  I  guess  she'd  settle  down  and 
make  a  stiddy  woman." 

"  Now,  mother,"  replied  Ethan,  preparing  to 
peel  his  third  pippin,  "don't  take  on  over  Letty  ; 


222  Stories  f of  Leisure  Hours. 

you  know  you're  generally  the  one  to  look  out 
pretty  sharp  on  the  bright  side.  Just  let  Letty 
alone.  Give  her  rope.  There's  some  women 
that  are  like  young  calves — they  have  to  have  a 
monstrous  long  tether.  Letty's  one  o'  that 
kind,  and  this  time  the  girl  is  right.  I  hope 
she'll  give  old  Squire  Proudfut  a  dressing  down, 
for  he's  the  ringleader  among  the  trustees.  It's 
a  shame  to  him  to  sit  in  meeting  every  Sunday, 
under  the  droppings  of  the  sanctuary,  with  his 
face  like  a  flint,  and  then  go  away  and  brow 
beat  a  woman.  There  aint  a  grain  of  justice  in 
Letty's  not  getting  the  same  wages  as  a  man 
if  she  does  the  same  work  and  does  it  as 
well,  and  I'm  glad  she's  going  to  stick  to  her 
pint." 

"  Wai,  maybe  the  child's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Ben 
nett,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  ludicrous  in  her, 
jolly  and  comfortable  as  she  was — something, 
in  fact,  like  a  laugh  turned  topsy-turvey  ;  "  but, 
for  my  part,  I  can't  see  where  she  gets  her  no 
tions.  I  always  thought  the  world  that  was 
good  enough  for  father  and  mother  was  good 
enough  for  me.  Father  was  a  close  man  and 
very  particular.  Mother  had  to  skinch  a  good 
deal ;  so  I  said  to  myself,  if  I  ever  get  married 


Letty's  Rights.  223 

I'll  marry  an  easy  man.  And  there's  one  thing 
about  it,  father,  you  are  an  easy  man." 

Ethan  nodded,  as  if  he  enjoyed  his  reputation. 
"  I  don't  know  as  I've  got  much  to  say  against 
men,"  Mrs.  Bennett  went  on.  "  I  guess  I've 
got  all  the  rights  I  want.  Letty  says  we're 
slaves,  and  she  wants  to  vote ;  but  I  can't  see 
much  sense  in  it  " — Ethan  nodded  again — "  and 
I  wish  she  hadn't  got  such  notions  in  her  head. 
If  she'd  marry  Sol,  she  could  twist  him  right 
round  her  little  finger  and  he'd  never  know  it. 
It's  always  best  to  let  a  man  think  he's  driving 
even  when  you've  got  the  lines  in  your  own 
hands.  Then  there's  that  farm  of  Sol's,  without 
a  cent  of  incumbrance  on  it,  and  that  nice  stone 
house,  that  Letty  could  have  all  to  herself ;  and 
such  a  cellar — why,  there  aint  another  like  it  in 
Huntsville." 

"  There's  Letty,  now,"  said  Ethan,  shoving  up 
the  window  and  letting  in  the  mild,  spicy  Octo 
ber  air,  "  and  some  of  the  boys  are  with  her. 
School's  out,  sure  enough." 

Letty  was  as  roundly  and  compactly  built  as 
her  mother  :  but  there  was  an  energy  in  her 
little  frame,  and  a  power  of  command  in  her 
bonny  blue  eye,  that  held  rude  spirits  in  check. 


224  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

No  boy — and  the  Huntsville  boys  were  a  hard 
lot — had  ever  been  known  to  ride  rough-shod 
over  Letty.  Still,  a  gleam  of  fun  twinkled  at 
the  corner  of  her  mouth.  She  knew  when  and 
how  to  unbend,  and  play  the  companion  with 
her  scholars.  Big  and  little  stood  by  her  to  a 
boy.  For  a  long  time  she  had  ruled  the  school 
over  Mr.  Austin's  head,  otherwise  that  weakling 
would  have  been  hooted  out  at  an  earlier  period. 

As  Letty  opened  the  little  gate  into  the  front 
yard,  the  boys,  with  their  books  and  slates, 
swarmed  up  on  the  fence. 

"  Let's  give  Miss  Bennett  three  cheers — good, 
rousing  fellows  !  "  said  Nate  Owens,  the  biggest 
boy  of  all,  with  a  flat  nose,  and  puffy  cheeks, 
and  little  twinkling  black  eyes.  Hats  and  caps 
flew  up  into  the  air,  and  the  cheers  were  given 
with  a  will. 

"  Boys,"  said  Letty,  facing  round  with  digni 
ty,  "  you  have  always  behaved  well  toward  me. 
Now  I  hope  you  are  going  to  treat  your  new 
teacher,  Miss  Hildreth,  with  equal  respect." 

"  Sho  !  "  broke  out  Bob  Sprowl,  "  Miss  Hil 
dreth  !  She's  skim-milk  watered.  She  haint 
got  the  spunk  of  a  louse.  We  wont  have  any 
other  teacher  but  you." 


Lefty's  Rights.  225 

"  No,  no,"  shouted  the  other  boys.  "  We'll 
bring  old  Granny  Proudfoot  to  his  oats.  He 
needn't  think  he's  going  to  put  any  teacher 
over  us  he  pleases.  Yes,  sir  ;  we  are  afraid 
of  you,  and  we  like  you,  too.  We  aint  the 
kind  of  boys  to  get  along  with  any  teacher 
we  aint  afraid  of.  If  we  don't  toe  the  mark, 
you're  down  on  us  like  lightnin' ;  but  that 
Miss  Hildreth  is  mush  and  molasses.  I  guess 
the  old  school-house  will  be  het  up  pretty  brisk 
while  she  stays." 

"  You'll  come  back  to  teach  us  again,  wont 
you?"  piped  out  Billy  Crofts.  "  Mother  says  I 
never  should  have  got  out  of  my  abs  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you,  for  I  aint  quick  at  my  spellin'." 

"  Go  home,  and  be  good  boys,"  responded 
Letty,  with  a  magnificent  wave  of  the  hand, 
though  her  eyes  were  a  little  damp. 

The  ex-school-ma'am  entered  the  house  and 
took  off  her  things  after  kissing  her  father  and 
mother. 

"  So  you  got  your  dander  up,  little  gal,"  said 
Ethan,  with  a  chuckle.  "  I  hope  you  pestered 
old  Squire  Proudfut,  for  he's  clost  enough  to 
take  the  hair  off  of  a  dog." 

"  Seems  to  me  I'd  have  given  in,"  remarked 


226  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Mrs.  Bennett,  "  the  boys  all  set  such  store  by 
you." 

"  Given  in ! "  repeated  Letty,  with  a  little 
melodramatic  flourish.  "  I  wouldn't  take  the 
place  for  any  less  if  the  whole  school  committee 
should  get  down  on  their  knees  to  me.  I  don't 
do  it  for  myself;  I  do  it  for  my  sex.  Women 
teachers  have  been  ground  down  and  imposed 
upon  long  enough,  and  I  want  to  show  the 
world  that  there's  one  who  wont  stand  it. 
Mother,  do  you  understand  the  value  of  a 
protest." 

"  Lor',  Letty,  don't  go  on  in  that  way,  I  don't 
know  nothing  what  you  mean." 

"  Let  her  talk,"  said  Ethan.  "  I  like  to  hear 
her.  It's  most  as  good  as  preachin'.  She's  got 
the  hang  of  using  big  words,  and  I  know  she's 
in  earnest  when  I  can't  understand  her.  Some 
folks  think,"  and  Ethan  shook  his  head  gravely, 
"  that  the  women  want  to  get  us  men  folks 
down  under  foot,  and  keep  us  there,  they've 
set  up  such  a  tarnal  clatter  about  their  rights. 
Let  'em,  if  they  can.  That's  what  I  say.  It's 
the  best  feller  that  always  comes  out  ahead. 
The  Lord  knows  I  don't  want  to  oppress  women. 
I  was  always  the  chicken-heartedest  creatur' 


Letty 's  Rights.  227 

living  about  'tother  sex.  Mother  there  knows 
it  seemed  as  if  I  should  die  before  I  could  ask 
her  to  have  me.  I  kinder  blundered  into  it  any 
how.  If  I  get  my  meals  regular,  and  things 
are  kept  snug  at  home,  then  let  the  women 
vote,  if  they  want  to  ;  but  I'll  be  blessed  if  I 
can  see  why  they  should  want  to.  You're  right 
this  time,  Letty,  and  I'm  glad  you've  stood  out 
agin  old  Proudfut." 

Letty,  who  was  a  singular  mixture  of  dignity 
and  childishness,  jumped  up,  and  put  her  arms 
round  her  father's  neck,  and  gave  him  two 
hearty  kisses  and  a  hug.  That  evening  she 
helped  get  tea  and  wash  the  dishes,  although  Let 
ty  disliked  dish-washing.  She  didn't  believe  it 
was  her  mission  in  life  ;  but  she  was  so  good  and 
docile  the  little  mother  began  to  think  it  would 
be  a  comfort  .to  have  Letty  at  home  after  all. 
A  day  or  two  passed,  and  Letty  submitted  to 
the  discipline  of  housework  with  admirable 
meekness.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  packed 
a  bag,  and  asked  her  father  to  take  her  over  to 
Lanesburgh,  on  a  visit  to  a  friend. 

The  farm-work  was  slack,  and  Ethan  had  just 
as  soon  take  what  he  called  a  "  skoot  "  as  not. 
Nothing  did  he  like  better  than  to  jog  along  the 


223  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

country  roads  behind  his  old  roan  horse,  Jake, 
with  Letty  by  his  side.  Letty  had  an  observ 
ing  eye  and  a  quick  tongue,  and  to  a  slow  man 
like  Ethan  supplied  all  his  mental  processes 
ready-made. 

The  school-house  of  Huntsville  was  a  hand 
some  one  for  a  country  neighborhood.  It  had 
a  belfry,  with  a  bell  hung  in  it,  and  two  fine 
class-rooms.  Miss  Hildreth  was  that  morning 
to  begin  her  reign  ;  and  there  was  Bobby 
Dish,  who  had  come  a  good  hour  before  school- 
time,  sliding  down  a  board  put  through  the 
fence,  and  wearing  the  seat  of  his  trowsers  in  a 
manner  to  wring  his  mother's  heart.  As  he 
spied  Letty  the  lad  rolled  off  the  board,  and 
applied  a  dirty  little  thumb  to  the  tip  of  his 
rudimentary  nose  in  a  style  which  meant  con 
fusion  to  Miss  Hildreth. 

The  ride  to  Lanesburgh  was  very  pleasant ; 
for  old  Jake  took  Letty  and  her  father  through 
winding  wood-roads,  where  the  trees,  bright 
with  autumn  tints,  made  sunshine  in  the  shade, 
and  the  spiced  air  came  softly  to  their  senses, 
and  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  was  heard,  and 
red  squirrels  were  seen  whisking  their  bushy 
tails  over  the  snake-fences. 


Letty' s  Rights.  229 

When  Ethan  set  Letty  down  at  her  friend's 
(Miss  Hollowell's)  door  she  told  him  he  need  not 
mind  about  coming  over  after  her.  At  the  end 
of  her  visit  she  would  take  the  stage  as  far  as 
the  Corners,  which  was  within  a  mile  of  home. 
So,  one  afternoon,  when  the  sun  was  setting  in 
a  sea  of  glory  that  seemed  to  fuse  all  things  ex 
cept  the  tree-trunks,  that  stood  out  black  and 
bare,  Letty  got  out  of  the  stage  and  walked 
along  the  highway,  with  her  feet  making  a 
pleasant  rustle  in  the  fallen  leaves.  Bob  Sprowl 
came  suddenly  out  of  the  woods,  where  he  had 
been  snaring  birds. 

"  Evenin',  Miss  Bennett.  School's  all  broke 
up  in  a  big  row.  That  Hildreth  woman,  she 
couldn't  do  nothing  with  the  boys.  We  warn't 
agoing  to  let  her  come  it  over  us.  She  had  to 
absquatulate.  And  now  I  guess  we'll  have  a 
good  play-spell,  unless  you  come  back  to  teach 
us,  for  us  boys  have  made  a  vow  we  wont  let 
any  body  else  stay." 

Letty  did  not  reprove  Bob  so  gravely  as,  per 
haps,  she  ought  to  have  done ;  but  she  went 
home  with  a  presentiment  that  a  crisis  was  at 
hand,  and  that  Squire  Proudfoot  might  be  obliged 

to  eat  more  humble  pie  than  he  was  likely  to 
15 


230  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

relish.  Her  mother  was  glad  to  find  that  she 
still  remained  subdued  and  cheerful.  Letty  had 
what  that  good  woman  called  moods  and  tenses  ; 
but  on  this  particular  afternoon  she  came  in  as 
cool  and  gentle  as  a  zephyr.  Mrs.  Bennett  had 
been  all  day  at  work  over  the  stove,  putting  up 
quinces  ;  and  she  looked  flushed  and  tired,  so 
Letty  took  hold  and  helped  get  tea.  After  tea 
there  was  bread  to  mix  for  next  morning's 
baking  ;  so  she  put  her  mother  into  her  favorite 
arm-chair,  and  went  into  the  buttery  to  sift 
flour,  with  her  neat  stuff  dress  pinned  up  behind 
over  a  starched  petticoat,  and  her  sleeves 
rolled  above  her  dimpled  elbows,  and  her  nice 
little  lace  collar  fastened  with  a  bow  of  blue 
velvet. 

She  had  powdered  the  bosom  of  her  dress  a 
little  in  dipping  down  into  the  flour-barrel,  when 
there  came  a  positive  hard  knock  upon  the  door 
— such  a  knock  as  a  man  gives  when  he  has  a 
disagreeable  piece  of  work  on  his  hands  and 
feels  surly  and  out  of  sorts. 

"  Come  in,"  called  Letty ;  and  then,  as  the 
door  opened,  admitting  a  thick-set  man,  muffled 
in  a  great-coat,  she  added,  with  a  sparkle  of 
malice  in  her  bright  eyes,  "  Good-evening,  Squire 


Letty  's  Rights.  23 1 

Proudfoot.  Please  to  walk  right  through  into 
the  sitting-room  ;  you'll  find  father  there." 

The  Squire  stood  irresolutely  in  the  back 
ground,  hemming  and  hawing,  and  thrusting 
out  his  thick  knobby  stick  in  front  of  him. 

"  Don't  know  as  I  care  pertickerly  about  see 
ing  your  father.  Thought  I'd  happen  in  and 
have  a  little  chat  with  you." 

"  O,  indeed  !  "  returned  Letty,  in  the  most  in 
genuous  manner.  "  Then  take  a  seat ;  I'll  be 
out  in  a  minute." 

She  went  back  into  the  buttery  and  finished 
sifting  the  flour  at  her  leisure.  Letty  knew  the 
value  of  deliberation.  When  she  came  out  her 
cheeks  were  rosy,  and  her  little  mouth  looked 
positive  and  determined. 

"  Ahem  !  Letitia,"  began  the  Squire,  "  what 
do  you  kalkerlate  to  do  with  yourself  now  you've 
give  up  school-keepin'  ? " 

"  Farmer  Lothrop  offers  seventy-five  cents  a 
day  to  any  body  that  wants  to  hire  out  to  pick 
up  cider-apples,"  returned  Letty,  "and  I  think 
of  engaging  with  him.  It  will  pay  better  than 
doing  a  man's  work  and  getting  half  his  wages. 
Besides,  it  will  bring  up  my  muscle." 

"  'Pears  to  me,  Letty,  you  want  to  make  your- 


232  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

self  over  into  a  man,  don't  you,  though  ?  "  This 
was  said  in  a  peculiarly  rasping  tone. 

"  Not  particularly,"  returned  Letty,  quietly. 

"  Now  you  don't  say  so  ?  I've  always  mis 
trusted  that  you'd  like  to  put  on  the  trowsers." 

"  I  should  put  them  on  if  I  wanted  to,"  re 
turned  Letty,  in  the  same  manner. 

"  O ! "  ejaculated  the  Squire,  pushing  his 
stick  out  in  front  of  him.  The  moment  for  the 
eating  of  humble  pie  had  come,  and  Letty 
relished  it  keenly.  There  was  a  little  awkward 
pause,  and  then  the  Squire  said  :  "  Wai,  Letty, 
you've  got  some  cur'us  notions  in  your  head ; 
but  there's  one  thing  I  will  say  for  you — you're 
the  best  teacher  we  ever  had  in  this  deestrict. 
That  Miss  Hildreth  dasn't  say  'boo.'  They 
kicked  up  an  awful  row.  It's  enough  to  dis 
grace  us  all  over  the  county.  The  school  will 
have  to  break  up  unless  we  can  get  you  back. 
You  see  we  gave  Austin  (here  the  Squire 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  confidential  point)  more 
than  we  could  afford,  because  he  was  one  of 
them  college-bred  chaps,  and  there's  a  good 
deal  in  a  name.  It's  enough  to  ruin  us  ;  but 
we've  concluded  you  must  have  the  same  pay 
Austin  had  if  you  wont  come  for  less.  We 


Letty 's  Rights.  233 

want  you  to  keep  it  hushed  up,  for  it's  setting 
an  awful  bad  example  ;  and  you  see  all  the 
wimmen  teachers  in  the  neighborhood  would 
strike  for  higher  wages  if  they  should  find  it 
out." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  want  the  place  now,"  re 
plied  Letty,  giving  a  vindictive  screw  to  her 
rosy  mouth,  and  kneading  away  industriously 
at  the  bread-making. 

"  O,  do  take  it !  "  urged  the  Squire,  getting 
thoroughly  on  the  anxious  seat.  "  We  sha'n't 
have  a  school  worth  a  snap  all  winter  unless  you 
come  back.  I'd  rather  pay  the  difference  out 
of  my  own  pocket,  if  it  did  come  pretty  tough." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Letty,  beaming  graciously 
upon  him  from  her  high  coigne  of  vantage,  "  to 
oblige  you,  I  will." 

The  Squire  went  away  feeling  that  she  had 
been  marvelously  condescending.  There  was 
somebody  outside  who  had  seen  the  Squire 
enter,  and  had  blessed  him,  in  a  certain  sense, 
for  interfering  with  his  own  cherished  plans. 
This  young  person  had  skulked  about  the  yard 
until  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Letty  through  the 
window — her  dark  hair  and  rosy  face  framed  in 
a  wreath  of  the  pretty  bitter-sweet  vine  that 


234  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

hung  carelessly  over  it.  He  noted  the  snowy 
apron  she  wore,  and  the  trim  body  of  her  dress, 
and  the  deft  way  she  kneaded  handfuls  of  flour 
into  the  plump  mass  of  dough  before  her. 
Sol's  heart  went  pit-a-pat  as  he  opened  the 
door ;  but  there  was  no  outward  and  visible 
sign  that  Letty's  went  pitty-Sol.  He  was  a 
good-looking  young  fellow,  with  the  fresh  color 
an  honest  country  life  gives.  There  were 
marks  of  sense  about  his  well-molded  head, 
best  expressed  by  the  word  sound  ;  but  the  state 
of  his  affections  at  this  juncture  rendered  him 
somewhat  sheepish  of  mien.  He  came  in  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  chair,  holding  his  hat 
between  his  knees,  very  much  as  if  it  had  con 
tained  eggs. 

"  Pretty  warm  to-night,  isn't  it  ? "  said  Sol, 
mopping  his  flushed  face  with  his  bandanna. 

"  O  no  ! "  replied  Letty,  keeping  her  back 
turned,  provokingly  enough.  "  I  thought  it  was 
cool  for  the  season." 

"  Thought  I'd  drop  in  and  ask  if  your  folks 
wouldn't  like  some  of  my  pumpkins,"  quoth 
Sol. 

"  No,  indeed,"  returned  Letty.  "  Our  barn's 
half  full  of  pumpkins  already." 


Letty' s  Rights.  235 

"  I  wish  there  was  something  of  mine  you'd 
like  to  have,"  broke  out  Sol  spasmodically  after 
a  painful  little  pause. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is,"  returned  Letty. 
"  We  raise  about  the  same  things  that  you  do. 
I  mean  sauce." 

This  was  too  exasperating,  and  Sol  could  not 
endure  it  longer.  "  You  know,"  he  broke  out, 
"  that  I  worship  the  very  ground  you  tread 
on." 

"  That's  the  way  men  talk  before  they  get 
women  into  their  power,"  returned  Letty,  knead 
ing  away  at  that  bread  as  if  she  never  intended 
to  have  done. 

"  Taint  talk  at  all,"  asserted  Sol ;  "  it's  the 
living  truth.  Come,  now,  Letty,  you  ought  to 
tell  me  whether  you  mean  to  have  me  or  not. 
I  can't  be  kept  in  such  suspense." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  marry  any  man,"  returned 
Letty,  "  until  I've  earned  some  money  of  my 
own." 

"  You  shall  have  all  you  want,"  cried  Sol 
eagerly ;  "  I'll  make  it  over  to  you  in  black  and 
white." 

"  I  should  only  want  what  I  earned  honestly. 
I  love  independence  if  I  am  a  woman,"  replied 


236  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Letty  in  a  little  softer  tone.  "  Men  are  stingy 
to  their  wives." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  stingy  to  you,  Letty.  I'd  re 
spect  all  your  rights.  Come,  say  out  square 
you'll  have  me,  and  I  shall  be  the  happiest 
fellow  alive." 

Sol  had  crept  nearer  and  nearer  in  his  eager 
ness.  Letty's  hands  were  still  engaged.  Yes, 
I  shall  have  to  tell  it.  He  was  the  man  who 
dared  ;  he  stooped  and  kissed  Letty's  cheek. 

At  that  moment  the  sitting-room  door  opened, 
and  Ethan  surprised  a  situation.  "  I  thought 
I  smelt  fire,"  said  he,  "  but  I  see  it  was  only  a 
spark."  Then  he  went  back,  and  there  was  an 
explosion  of  laughter. 

"  So  you  and  Sol  have  made  it  up  between 
you?"  said  Mrs.  Bennett  when,  a  little  later, 
Letty  walked  in. 

"  Sol  was  impudent,"  returned  Letty  coolly. 

"  He  never  would  have  been  if  you  didn't 
mean  to  marry  him,"  put  in  Ethan. 

"  Squire  Proudfoot  has  come  to  my  terms," 
remarked  Letty,  to  change  the  subject,  "  and  I 
am  going  back  to  school." 

Letty  taught  school  two  years,  and  then  she 
married  Sol.  She  kept  the  secret  of  her  wages 


Letty  's  Rights.  237 

so  well  that  at  this  present  time  there  isn't  a 
woman  teacher  in  the  vicinity  whose  pay  doesn't 
equal  that  of  a  man  in  the  same  place ;  and 
accordingly  Huntsville  is  like  a  city  set  on  a 
hill. 


238  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 


THE    RED    EAR. 


'VERY  THING  must  be  put  off  until 
Lucy  Malcom  gets  here.  The  boys 
are  ready  to  break  their  necks  for  her.  We 
mustn't  let  her  know  how  much  this  visit  has 
been  lotted  on.  It  will  make  her  feel  too  im 
portant." 

"  They  say  there's  lots  of  musie  in  Lucy,"  re 
turned  Uncle  Dorset.  Every  body  called  him 
Uncle  Dorset.  "  She's  just  that  trim-built,  light- 
steppin'  creeter  her  mother  was  before  her. 
What  grand,  good  times  we  boys  and  girls  used 
to  have  together  when  she  was  young  !  You 
can't  have  forgotten  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  his  wife,  with  a  slight  air  of  in 
jury.  "  You  and  Horace  was  both  of  you  smit 
ten  with  Lucy  Parkes.  Every  body  knows  that 
well  enough." 

"  No,"  replied  Uncle  Dorset,  wagging  his 
good-natured  old  head,  "  it  was  Horace's  sister 


The  Red  Ear.  239 

I  was  after  ;  but  I  was  always  willing  to  crack  a 
joke  with  Lucy  Parkes." 

"  Wai,"  remarked  Aunt  Dorset,  the  aggrieved 
tone  shading  off  a  little,  "  it  always  looked 
as  if  it  was  nip  and  tuck  between  you  and 
Horace." 

The  old  lady  did  not  really  mean  it  ;  but  the 
truth  was  she  had  always  been  a  little  jealous 
of  her  brother's  wife,  and  now,  almost  uncon 
sciously,  the  feeling  was  transferred  to  Lucy 
Malcom.  She  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  her 
coming  to  Stockburn  and  turning  people's 
heads,  as  her  mother  had  done.  She  had 
not  seen  the  girl  for  five  or  six  years  ;  but 
report  said  Lucy  had  grown  to  be  a  pretty,  arch, 
dark-eyed  little  witch,  with  a  spice  of  mischief 
in  her  composition  that  made  her  quite  irresist 
ible.  In  the  mild  haze  of  the  autumn  day  the 
Dorset  boys  were  getting  in  the  corn,  drawing 
with  an  ox-team  the  rustling  shocks  to  the 
barn — 

"  The  old  swallow-haunted  barn, 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams, 
Through  which  the  moated  sunlight  streams." 

"  We  will  have  a  husking-bee  when  Cousin 
Lucy  gets  here,"  said  Enoch  Dorset  as  he 


240  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

stood  up  on  the  load,  pitchfork  in  hand,  his  tall, 
well-knit  form  swaying  a  little  and  showing  to 
advantage,  clad  as  it  was  in  a  comfortable  flan 
nel  shirt  and  trowsers  of  Jersey  blue. 

"Golly!  so  we  will,"  said  his  brother  Job 
from  the  thrashing-floor.  "  If  Cousin  Lu  is  as 
lively  as  they  say  she  is,  it  will  be  general  train 
ing  most  of  the  time  while  she  stays." 

Job  was  not  as  good-looking  as  Enoch.  His 
hair  was  lank  and  his  face  was  sallow  ;  but  there 
were  funny  lines  round  his  mouth,  and  he  had  a 
dry  way  of  saying  things,  and  a  taste  for  droll 
ery  of  all  sorts,  that  made  him  a  favorite.  He 
kept  his  wit  sharpened  at  Enoch's  expense  ; 
and  Enoch  was  rather  open  to  ridicule,  for  he 
had  a  sneaking  fondness  for  hair-oil,  and  fancy 
neckties,  and  scented  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and 
secretly  believed  himself  to  be  the  best-looking 
fellow  in  Stockburn. 

"  Hullo  !  "  said  Enoch,  standing  still  on  the 
load,  with  that  easy  sway  of  the  hips,  and  shading 
his  handsome  brown  face  with  his  hand  as  he 
looked  up  the  road  where  it  rose  a  little  until 
the  spiral  Lombardy  poplars  in  front  of  Elka- 
nah  Raynor's  house  showed  gaps  of  sky  between, 
like  parted  fingers,  and  the  old  chimneys  nestled 


The  Red  Ear.  241 

in  a  bower  of  fruit-trees,  yellow  and  russet  now. 
The  road  down  which  Enoch  was  gazing  was 
by  no  means  a  common  country  road.  The 
fences  were  all  of  the  best,  and  the  foot-paths 
were  shaded  by  fine  stocky  maples,  that  were 
carpeting  the  wagon-track  with  flecks  of  flame 
color.  Every  house  in  Stockburn  neighbor 
hood  was  snug  and  neat,  with  a  well-to-do  air. 
It  had  the  best  school-house  and  church  in  the 
township,  and  was  what  people  called  a  "  crack  " 
street. 

"There's  the  stage  coming  round  the  turn 
pike  corner ! "  exclaimed  Enoch  as  his  eyes 
followed  a  cloud  of  dust. 

"  Cousin  Lucy ! "  shouted  Job.  And  he  threw 
down  his  fork  and  dashed  away  to  the  house ; 
and  in  a  minute  more  Uncle  Dorset,  bare-headed, 
with  his  broad,  good-natured  old  face  smiling 
all  over,  and  little  bustling  Aunt  Dorset,  with 
her  cap-strings  flying,  hurried  out  into  the  front 
yard. 

There  was  a  face  at  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
Raynor  farm-house  as  the  top-heavy  stage,  with 
its  six  horses,  and  flapping  leather  curtains,  and 
piles  of  trunks  strapped  on  behind,  went  creak 
ing  past.  The  house  was  too  much  shaded  for 


242  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

health,  and  the  face  was  in  shadow.  It  was  a 
young  face,  with  an  abundance  of  soft  hair, 
regular  features,  and  large  blue  eyes,  that  ought 
to  have  been  patient  and  loving ;  but  there 
was  an  unnatural  compression  about  the  lines 
of  the  mouth  that  made  it  look  a  little  stern. 
Now,  as  the  stage  passed  quickly  by,  affording 
to  the  watching  eyes  at  the  window  a  glimpse 
of  a  fascinating,  girlish  countenance,  lovely  in 
its  bloom,  with  a  little  blue  vail  fluttering  from 
a  jockey  hat,  Nancy  Raynor's  head  bent  down 
on  her  work,  and  it  seemed  as  though  some 
thing  said  in  her  ear,  "  He  will  love  her  ;  I  know 
he  will  love  her." 

So  it  appeared  that  Lucy  Malcom's  arrival 
was  causing  some  heart-burning  in  Stockburn 
neighborhood.  All  unconscious  of  this,  Lucy 
— the  roundest,  plumpest,  merriest  little  maiden 
ever  seen — tripped  out  of  the  stage  when  the 
driver  had  brought  his  horses  to.  There  was  a 
pair  of  sparkling  black  eyes  adorning  her  rosy 
face,  and  her  laugh  rang  out  as  clear  as  a  silver 
bell.  Lucy  had  various  parcels,  bags,  and  books, 
which  she  shed  about  as  such  a  little  minx  will ; 
and  a  young  man,  who  had  got  down  from  the 
stage  to  assist  her  in  alighting,  gathered  them 


The  Red  Ear.  243 

up  and  handed  them  back.  He  was  evidently 
a  town-bred  man,  with  white  hands,  and  a  down 
ward  look,  and  too  little  chin,  and  a  carefully- 
kept  mustache.  Lucy  took  her  things  from 
him  in  a  pretty,  petulant  sort  of  a  way,  giving 
him  a  curt  little  bow ;  and  the  next  moment 
they  were  all  on  the  ground,  and  she  had  her 
arms  hugged  tightly  round  Uncle  Dorset's 
neck. 

"  Don't  you  mean  to  give  me  one  of  them, 
Cousin  Lucy  ?  "  inquired  Enoch,  leaning,  in  one 
of  his  naturally  graceful  postures,  against  the 
gate  as  the  kisses  went  flying  about.  "  I  think 
I  ought  to  come  in  for  my  share." 

The  saucy  little  maiden  shook  her  black 
tresses  very  decidedly,  making  eyes  at  Enoch, 
Aunt  Dorset  thought,  just  as  Lucy  Parkes  used 
to  do ;  and  the  next  moment,  in  one  of  her 
capricious  fits,  she  embraced  old  Job  with  her 
chubby  little  arms  and  gave  him  a  sounding 
smack.  From  that  time  her  flirtation  with 
Enoch  may  be  said  to  have  begun. 

"Who  is  that  spruce-looking  young  fellow 
who  helped  you  out  of  the  stage,  Lucy  ? "  in 
quired  Aunt  Dorset,  gazing  through  her  honest 
old  specs.  "  Is  he  an  acquaintance  of  yours  ? " 


244  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

The  young  man  had  mounted  to  the  driver's 
seat  while  the  operation  of  getting  the  trunk 
off  was  in  progress,  and  appeared  to  be  watch 
ing  the  group  in  the  door-yard  under  the  locust- 
trees  with  considerable  interest. 

"  O,  I  believe  he  has  got  business  somewhere 
around  here,"  returned  Lucy,  with  an  indiffer 
ent  toss  of  her  head.  "  He  was  very  civil  to 
me  on  the  journey." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  a  bit  of  a  flirt,  child," 
said  Aunt  Dorset.  And  then  she  thought  to 
herself,  "  Her  mother  was  before  her ;  pity  if 
she  shouldn't  be." 

"  Me  a  flirt !  O,  auntie ! "  and  Lucy's  black 
eyes  rolled  up,  and  her  mouth  puckered  itself 
into  a  dewy,  rosy  exclamation  point. 

They  were  in  the  house  now,  and  Aunt  Dor 
set  had  shown  her  niece  up  to  the  best  room, 
shut  up  as  best  rooms  are  apt  to  be  in  the  coun 
try,  and  rather  heavy  with  old  mahogany  furni 
ture,  and  a  high-post  bedstead,  with  its  dimity- 
teaster  and  mountain  of  feathers.  The  moment 

the  little  dumpling  of  an  old  lady  had  trotted 

^ 
out  of  the  room  to  fetch   something  that  had 

been  forgotten,  Lucy  skipped  to  the  window, 
pushed  back  the  blinds,  and  let  her  handker- 


The  Red  Ear.  245 

chief  flutter  out  in  the  breeze.  Strange  to  say, 
there  was  an  answering  signal  from  the  top  of 
the  stage.  Enoch,  who  was  lingering  below  in 
the  yard,  saw  the  maneuver,  and  said  to  him 
self,  "  She's  a  regular  little  case.  I  believe 
she  knows  more  about  that  fellow  than  she 
pretends." 

Lucy  had  been  brought  up  in  a  town  of  con 
siderable  size,  where  French  fashions  prevailed  ; 
and  she  had  brought  all  her  little  gauds  and  fur 
belows  to  Stockburn,  with  the  hope  of  electrify 
ing  the  natives,  for  her  soul  was  by  no  means 
above  such  feminine  triumphs.  She  opened 
her  trunk,  and  hung  some  trinkets  about  her 
plump  little  person,  and  nestled  some  bows  of 
cherry  ribbon  among  her  glossy  black  curls. 
She  went  down  stairs  just  before  tea. 

"  How  nice  it  is  here ! "  said  Lucy,  looking 
out  through  the  sitting-room  window  at  the 
sunny  old  garden.  "  I  have  always  been  cooped 
up  in  a  town,  Uncle  Dorset,  and  now  you 
must  teach  me  to  be  a  country  girl." 

"  I  s'pose  you  think,  don't  you,"  inquired  the 
old  gentleman,  '•  that  some  cows  give  butter 
milk,  just  as  Dr.  Hillyer's  niece  did  when  she 

came  up  here  on  a  visit  from  York  ?  " 
16 


246  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours, 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  returned  Lucy,  archly, 
bursting  into  a  merry  laugh  ;  "  and  then,  you 
know,  I  solemnly  believe  that  potatoes  grow 
on  bushes." 

"Do  see  Lucy  snuggled  up  to  your  father, 
and  he  looks  as  pleased  as  cuffy,"  said  Aunt 
Dorset  to  Job  as  she  put  a  drawing  of  tea  in 
the  pot.  "  There's  a  good  deal  of  the  cat  about 
that  girl.  The  Parkeses  have  all  got  it,  every 
one  of  them." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  having  her  purr  round  me," 
responded  Job  in  his  dry  way. 

They  were  seated  at  the  pleasant  tea-table 
now.  Enoch  had  come  in,  and  Lucy  was  the 
center  of  every  body's  attentions.  In  spite 
of  Lord.  Byron's  churlish  opinion,  she  was 
perfectly  charming  while  engaged  with  her 
knife  and  fork. 

"  Tell  me,  Enoch,"  inquired  she,  "  are  there 
any  nice  girls  in  this  neighborhood  ?  I  don't 
care  a  fig  for  young  men,  (there  was  a  sly  twinkle 
in  her  eye,) — they  are  horrid,  conceited  creatures ; 
but  I  should  like  to  get  acquainted  with  a  nice 
girl." 

''Nancy  Raynor  is  our  next  neighbor's 
daughter,"  said  Uncle  Dorset,  "and  she  is 


The  Red  Ear.  247 

as  likely  a  girl  as  ever  was  raised  here  in 
Stockburn." 

"  She  has  got  what  I  call  pretty  manners," 
put  in  Aunt  Dorset,  dishing  out  the  stewed 
quinces.  "  Most  of  the  girls  nowadays  are 
too  brazen  to  suit  my  old-fashioned  notions." 

"  Ask  Enoch  about  her,"  said  Job,  with  a 
droll  wink. 

"  O,  yes,"  struck  in  Uncle  Dorset,  "  Enoch 
and  Nancy  used  to  be  very  thick  ;  and  I  can't 
say  whether  it's  her  fault  or  his'n  that  they  don't 
hitch  horses  any  more." 

Enoch  colored  as  he  bent  over  his  plate,  and 
Lucy  cast  a  mischievous  little  glance  at  him. 

"  Nancy  don't  come  here  near  as  often  as  she 
used  to,"  said  Aunt  Dorset,  pouring  out  the  old 
gentleman's  second  cup  of  tea,  and  putting  in 
what  he  called  a  "long  sweetening."  "She 
aint  the  kind  of  girl  to  let  any  young  man  think 
she's  going  to  break  her  heart  about  him.  She's 
an  independent  little  piece,  if  she  does  look  as 
if  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  her  mouth.  All  the 
Raynors  are  hard-bitted." 

Enoch  looked  really  annoyed  now,  and  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  on  his  plate,  to  avoid  Lucy's 
wicked  little  glances. 


248  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up,  and  said  to  her: 
"  If  you  get  acquainted  with  Nancy  you  can 
wave  your  pocket-handkerchief  out  of  the 
window.  I  believe  you  like  that  sort  of  thing." 
Now  it  was  Lucy's  turn  to  cast  down  her 
eyes. 

The  house  was  full  of  fun  and  music,  just  as 
Uncle  Dorset  had  predicted.  Lucy  kept  things 
pretty  well  stirred  up,  and  plotted  against  Aunt 
Dorset's  steady,  jog-trot,  old-fashioned  ideas. 
She  wanted  to  have  her  finger  in  every  body's 
pie.  She  meddled  with  the  cooking,  and  made 
little  mortified-looking  cakes,  that  nobody  could 
eat. 

"'Pears  to  me  these  biscuits  have  got  the 
measles,"  said  Uncle  Dorset  one  morning  as 
he  broke  one  open,  decorated  with  a  number  of 
yellow  eyes. 

"  I  made  them,  dear,"  said  Lucy,  looking  so 
penitent.  "  You  know  I've  been  brought  up  in 
dreadful  ignorance ;  but  now  I  am  learning  to 
cook,  for  I  expect  to  marry  a  poor  man — per 
haps  a  farmer."  And  she  cast  such  -a  glance 
at  Enoch  that  Aunt  Dorset  took  the  alarm. 
That  same  afternoon,  while  Enoch  was  down 
in  the  Evans  lot,  mending  a  piece  of  fence,  to 


The  Red  Ear.  249 

keep  Squire  Bridgam's  cattle  out,  his  anxious 
mother  appeared,  with  her  apron  over  her 
head. 

"  Look  here,  Enoch,"  said  she,  "  the  neigh 
bors  have  got  it  round  that  you  are  going  to 
make  a  match  with  Lucy  Malcom.  I  wouldn't 
be  quite  so  pertickerler  toward  her  if  I  was 
you.  It  never  turns  out  well  for  first  cousins 
to  marry." 

"  The  neighbors  may  just  mind  their  own 
business,"  said  Enoch,  angrily,  as  he  hammered 
away  at  a  board. 

"Tut,  tut,"  returned  his  mother,  who  had  a 
temper  of  her  own.  "  It  takes  a  flirt  to  catch  a 
flirt,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  and  Lucy 
were  well  matched.  To  speak  plain,  I  don't 
think  you  have  treated  Nancy  Raynor  right  ; 
and  the  day  may  come  when  you  will  find  out 
what  a  true  heart  is  worth." 

In  spite  of  all  this  Aunt  Dorset  liked  the 
creature.  Lucy  compelled  liking  from  those 
who  did  not  wholly  approve  of  her.  She  was 
disorderly  and  upsetting,  and  shocked  the  old 
lady's  ideas  of  method  and  regularity  ;  but  still 
she  would  bear  more  from  her  than  from  any 
body  else.  Job  liked  Lucy's  spirit  of  fun.  She 


250  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

was  not  too  big  to  play  torn-boy,  and  to  follow 
the  boys  into  the  field  and  ride  home  on  a  load 
of  pumpkins,  looking  like  a  little  queen  amid 
her  golden  treasures.  She  had  seen  Nancy 
Raynor  in  the  singers'  seat  at  church  of  a  Sun 
day  morning,  but  that  was  as  near  as  the  two 
girls  had  approached  each  other.  In  response 
to  Lucy's  teasing,  Aunt  Dorset  had  invited  the 
neighbor's  daughter  to  tea ;  but  on  the  after 
noon  of  the  day  appointed  Nancy  had  sent  to 
say  that  she  must  be  excused  on  account  of  a 
bad  headache.  Job  comforted  Lucy  by  saying 
that  Nancy  would  surely  come  to  the  husking- 
bee  ;  but  Nancy,  as  she  lay  awake  nights,  with 
the  tears  wetting  her  cheeks,  thought  to  her 
self  that  she  would  not  go  and  witness  that 
girl's  triumph.  From  her  place  of  vantage 
by  the  window,  with  her  face  looking  pale 
and  her  breath  coming  fast,  she  had  watched 
Enoch  pass  by  in  the  moonlight,  with  Lucy 
clasping  his  arm  and  gazing  up  in  his  face, 
and  she  almost  despised  herself  because  she 
could  not  see  it  unmoved. 

Enoch  was  bewitched  by  Lucy,  but  the  be 
witching  did  not  go  very  far.  He  was  a  young 
man  who  had  a  very  good  opinion  of  himself, 


The  Red  Ear.  25 1 

and  his  constancy  had  not  been  developed. 
He  liked  to  have  a  number  of  girls  fond  of  him, 
and  he  thought  it  was  rather  a  fine  thing  to 
cool  off  toward  a  flame,  as  he  had  done  toward 
Nancy  Raynor.  Still,  with  all  her  innocent, 
pussy-like  ways,  Enoch  distrusted  Lucy.  He 
had  caught  her  sending  billets  privately  to 
Middletown  by  the  farm-hand,  Zeke,  and  he 
had  not  forgotten  her  adventure  in  the  stage 
coach. 

The  preparations  for  the  husking-bee  were 
almost  complete,  and  Lucy  was  quite  wild  with 
delight.  The  big  barn  was  to  be  nicely  illu 
minated,  and  the  supper  of  pumpkin-pie,  dough 
nuts,  and  cider  to  be  spread  in  the  kitchen  in 
the  good  old  orthodox  fashion.  Afterward  the 
great  barn-floor  was  to  be  cleared,  and  black 
fiddlers,  engaged  at  Middletown,  were  to  play 
for  dancing. 

Two  days  before  the  husking-bee  was  to  come 
off,  Lucy  made  Job  an  apple-pie  bed.  Job 
meant  to  be  even  with  her,  and  the  next  after 
noon  he  called  up  the  stairway  : 

"  Cousin  Lucy,  don't  you  want  to  take  a  ride 
behind  Brown  Betty  ?  " 

Lucy  was,  of  course,  delighted  with  the  propo- 


252  Stones  for  Leisure  Hours. 

sition,  so  she  stepped  to  the  window  and 
peeped  through  the  blinds,  and  there  was 
Brown  Betty  hitched  to  the  sulky — a  light,  airy 
thing,  that  looked  as  if  made  of  cobwebs,  with 
the  tiniest  of  backless  seats  hung  in  the  middle. 
Lucy  appreciated  the  joke,  and,  while  Job  ran 
back  to  the  carriage-house  to  get  his  coat,  she 
slipped  down  stairs,  unhitched  Brown  Betty, 
and  was  off  down  the  road  like  a  flash. 

"  O,  massy  to  us  ! "  screeched  Aunt  Dorset, 
running  to  the  door.  "  That  child  will  surely 
get  killed.  She  don't  know  nothing  about  driv 
ing,  and  the  mare  is  as  skittish  as  a  colt." 

Job  dashed  out  of  the  carriage-house,  look 
ing  crestfallen  enough.  "  She's  a  plucky  little 
piece  of  baggage,"  said  he,  "and  there's  no 
use  trying  to  get  ahead  of  her.  Don't  worry, 
mother ;  Lucy  is  able  to  take  care  of  her 
self." 

There  certainly  was  a  sweet  little  cherub 
somewhere  up  aloft,  who  looked  out  for  auda 
cious  Lucy.  In  an  hour's  time  she  came  back, 
with  a  demurely  wicked  gleam  in  her  eye. 
Brown  Betty  had  evidently  been  put  through 
her  paces.  Lucy  threw  down  the  lines  with  a 
professional  air,  and  ordered  Job  to  give  her  nag 


9MO  Lucy's   Ride   with    Brown    Betty. 

"O  m'nssy  to  us,"  screeched  Aunt  Dorset,  "that  child  will  surely 
f*et  killed." 


The  Red  Ear.  255 

some  water,  "  for  she  is  as  dry  as  a  contribu 
tion-box,"  she  added ;  "  and  I  would  like  to 
know  who  is  a  little  sulky  now." 

Lucy  explained,  later,  that  accidentally  she 
had  met  Mr.  Allen,  the  young  man  who  was 
polite  to  her  in  the  stage.  In  return  for  turn 
ing  her  horse  around,  she  had  asked  him  to 
come  over  to  the  husking-bee. 

The  night  of  the  husking-bee  had  come,  and 
Milton  Raynor  was  blacking  his  boots  at  the 
back-doop  of  the  farm-house. 

"  Aren't  you  going  over  to  Dorset's  to-night  ?" 
he  inquired  of  his  sister. 

"  No,  I  am  not." 

"  Now  I  would,  if  I  was  you,  Nancy.  It 
don't  look  well  for  you  to  stay  cooped  up  here 
at  home.  Folks  will  begin  to  say  you  are  love 
sick." 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  say,"  returned 
Nancy,  and  her  voice  sounded  harsh  and 
metallic  in  her  own  ears.  She  went  up  to  her 
room,  and  sat  down  by  the  little  window,  that 
was  festooned  by  the  Virginia  creeper,  burning 
with  a  deep  autumnal  crimson.  The  moonlight 
was  falling  still  and  white  on  the  stubble-fields 
and  belts  of  woods.  It  blanched  Nancy's 


256  Stories  for  Leistire  Hours. 

face — not  a  patient  or  submissive  face.  Her 
eyes  might  have  read  a  poem  in  that  lovely 
evening,  but  they  were  full  of  trouble.  She 
wanted  to  crush  out  the  core  of,  constancy  and 
devotion  in  her  heart,  but  she  knew  not  how 
to  do  it.  She  was  too  restless  to  stay  within 
doors,  so  she  wrapped  her  head  and  shoulders 
in  a  shawl,  and  glided  out  into  the  shadow  of 
the  trees  along  the  roadside,  until  she  came 
nearly  opposite  to  Uncle  Dorset's  house,  where 
she  could  see  the  lights  from  the  barn  and  catch 
the  sounds  of  fun  and  frolic  from  the  buskers. 
She  was  haunted  by  an  irrational  desire  to  spy 
upon  Enoch  and  Lucy,  and  to  confirm  what  she 
so  much  dreaded  to  find  true. 

Mr.  Allen  arrived  early,  and  with  his  white 
hands,  his  want  of  chin,  black  mustache,  and 
city-made  clothes,  quite  captivated  the  rustic 
beauties  of  Stockburn.  But  Nelly  Blake,  a 
blue-eyed  little  blonde,  received  a  much  larger 
share  of  his  attention  than  Lucy  Malcom  did  ; 
although  Lucy,  in  her  scarlet  spencer  and  black 
skirt,  below  which  peeped  the  trimmest  of 
ankles  and  tidiest  of  buskin  shoes,  was  certainly 
very  charming.  She  was  always  with  Enoch, 
laughing  and  sparring  and  flinging  about  her 


The  Red  Ear.  257 

bright,  saucy  wit.  Enoch  had  just  whispered 
to  her  that  if  he  found  the  red  ear  she  would 
have  to  suffer,  when  some  one  screamed  that 
Mr.  Allen  had  found  it.  The  dove-cote  was 
ruffled,  and  the  girls  scampered  over  the  piles 
of  corn  and  hid  in  the  horse-stalls,  trying  to 
avoid  the  penalty  of  a  kiss.  At  last  the  young 
man  took  after  Lucy,  and  the  light-footed  little 
minx  gave  him  a  chase  round  the  barn,  and  then 
dashed  away  through  the  door  into  the  moon 
light,  he  after  her,  and  the  ring  of  her  silver 
laugh  was  the  last  that  was  heard  of  little 
Lucy. 

In  the  confusion  nobody  missed  them. 
The  whole  company  went  to  supper  pretty 
soon,  and  more  than  half  an  hour  had  passed 
when  Enoch  came  and  took  hold  of  Job's  coat- 
sleeve.  They  stepped  outside  the  kitchen-door 
together,  and  then  Enoch  said,  in  an  agitated 
whisper : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  where  is  Cousin  Lucy  ? 
That  fellow  Allen  has  disappeared  too.  Can 
it  be  she  is  playing  one  of  her  pranks  ?  Fa 
ther  has  gone  to  bed.  Don't  speak  to  mother 
yet.  Get  a  light  and  come  up  to  her  room  with 
me." 


258  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

The  two  brothers  slipped  noiselessly  up  the 
staircase  into  Lucy's  chamber,  where  the  moon 
light  was  lying  quietly  upon  the  carpet  Every 
thing  seemed  just  as  usual,  only  a  note  lay  on 
the  bureau,  addressed  to  Uncle  Dorset,  in  Lucy's 
pretty  girlish  handwriting.  Enoch  snatched 
it  and  tore  it  open.  It  ran  as  follows  : 

"  Don't  be  cross  and  scold  me,  that's  a  dear. 
I  am  going  to  marry  Charley  Farnsworth.  He 
isn't  Mr.  Allen  at  all.  I  think  pa  has  been  very 
cruel  toward  Charley.  He  wouldn't  let  him 
come  to  the  house,  because  he  was  a  little  wild 
once.  But  now  Charley  has  reformed,  and  don't 
drink  a  drop  ;  and  if  he  couldn't  get  into  busi 
ness,  I  am  sure  it  wasn't  his  fault,  poor  fellow. 
The  only  business  he  had  in  Middletown  was 
seeing  me.  Maybe  you  will  think  I  am  to 
blame  ;  but  I  do  love  Charley  to  distraction, 
and  we  mean  to  get  married  this  very  night. 
Nobody  need  follow  us,  for  it  will  be  too  late." 

Perhaps  Enoch  uttered  an  oath  ;  at  any  rate, 
he  crushed  the  note  in  his  hand.  "  Go  down 
stairs,  Job,"  said  he,  "and  try  and  keep  the 
folks  agoing.  Get  up  a  game  if  you  can.  Don't 
tell  mother  quite  yet.  I  will  put  Zeke  on  one  of 
the  farm-horses  and  mount  Brown  Betty  my- 


The  Red  Ear.  259 

self ;  and  perhaps  we  can  bring  the  crazy  girl 
to  her  senses.  The  fellow  looked  to  me  like 
a  sneak,  and  I  dare  say  he  is  after  Uncle 
Horace's  money.  Wont  the  old  gentleman 
fume,  though." 

Enoch  ten  minutes  later  was  spurring  along 
the  moon-lit  road,  when  he  caught  sight  of  a 
fluttering  garment  among  the  trees  by  the 
way. 

"  Who  is  there,"  he  called  out  sharply.  As 
no  answer  came,  he  alighted,  took  the  bridle 
over  his  arm,  and  pushed  into  the  shadows. 

"  It's  me,  Nancy  Raynor,"  said  a  faint  voice. 

"  You,  Nancy,  out  alone  this  time  of  night ! 
Did  you  see  any  body  pass  here  half  an  hour 
back?"  he  asked,  hurriedly.  "I  am  afraid  my 
cousin,  Lucy  Malcom,  has  made  a  fool  of  her 
self,  and  gone  off  with  a  scamp  who  has  been 
hanging  round  here  ever  since  she  came." 

Nancy  had  often  thought  in  just  what  scorn 
ful  tones  she  would  speak  to  Enoch  Dorset  if 
he  ever  chanced  to  be  humiliated  in  her  pres 
ence  ;  but  now  the  opportunity  had  come,  and 
all  her  vindictiveness  had  vanished. 

"  And  do  you  care  so  very  much  about  her  ?  " 
she  asked  in  a  faltering  voice. 


260  Stories  for  Leisure  Hours. 

"  I  don't  care  in  the  way  you  think  I  do' 
Nancy,"  and  Enoch's  better  nature  suddenly 
asserted  itself.  "  The  only  girl  I  ever  really 
cared  for  was  you,  and  I  was  a  fool  and  a  cox 
comb.  I  thought  I  could  play  with  you ;  and 
when  I  wanted  to  come  back,  you  were  like  ice 
toward  me.  Of  course,  I  deserved  it.  I  de 
serve  that  you  should  punish  me,  perhaps 
should  never  speak  to  me  again." 

"  O,  Enoch  !  How  miserable  I  have  been," 
sobbed  Nancy  as  her  head  went  down.  Enoch 
found  a  moment  in  which  to  comfort  her  before 
he  leaped  again  on  his  horse  and  darted  away 
after  the  fugitives.  But  they  were  not  found 
that  night.  The  next  day  Lucy  came,  with  her 
graceless  husband,  and  threw  herself  at  Uncle 
Dorset's  feet,  and  begged  him  to  intercede  with 
her  father.  He  could  not  help  promising  any , 
thing  while  Lucy  had  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  so  he  did  intercede,  and  the  old  man  re 
lented  in  a  few  months,  and  Lucy  was  taken 
back  into  favor.  The  little  cherub  that  sits  up 
aloft  has  never  deserted  her,  and  Charley  has 
turned  out  better  than  could  have  been  ex 
pected.  He  takes  care  of  the  babies,  and  is 
good  to  his  flyaway  wife,  and  makes  jokes  of 


The  Red  Ear.  261 

how  he  won  her  with  the  red  ear  in  that  old 
husking-bee. 

When  Nancy  married  Enoch  folks  said  she 
was  too  good  for  him.  And  so  she  was  ;  but 
she  has  helped  to  make  a  man  of  him,  and 
Enoch  would  be  ready  to  chastise  any  body 
who  should  even  hint  that  he  does  not  love  his 
wife  dearly. 


THE    END. 


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